Sometimes the thought of dying comes,
This sudden desire to go away from all your mess,
That have become too many that you can't wipe it off at one swipe of faith,
But the fear of my eternal home,
Bars my thought from leaping into action,
I am not ready for judgement,
I don't know whether it will be fair on me,
I hate walking dark lonely roads.
I remember my widowed mother
And her mountain of tears shed by the large family portrait
In her thought of me and the hope that it brings,
Who will comfort her?
Who would tell her how hard I fought?
That this was more that the man in me
How lonely will my friends feel?
Feeding on the thought that I left without a word
And worry why I couldn't shared the burden of the hell in me,
Four are better off in any fiery furnace, they would say.
How will I be remembered?
A saint as many know,
On the sinner that only I know,
These word like many overflowing seas
Flow into my mind,
Floods me till I drown,
Leaving nothing but my wretched pen
And the dead hope that is found in it.