Face the ceiling and count the patterns imprinted
Realising your soon death has been hinted.
Face the ceiling and look forward to an afterlife,
Pondering on the deeds you committed in God’s sight.
The Horizontal Dungeon; the Prison of Paralysis.
Immobility with an enduring crisis,
Minutes from death and the seconds count down,
Picturing all the Legos you stacked up in this life come down,
Reflecting on the deeds committed and omitted from man’s view.
You chew over whether your life was worth 12 years of school.
You consider the words uttered and friends made,
Questioning if your life was well paid or worked as a maid,
Interviewing yourself you ask, “Was ‘everything’ really worth it?”
All the times handed to my pursuits and endeavors truly worth it?
Queries resulting from ambition, immorality and impurity
All put on the table and directly under scrutiny.
The Grim Reaper arrives, cloaked with scythe in hand, to extract the truth.
He taunts you asking “Tell me, did you enjoy or waste your youth?
Did you run for the best and always persist?
Did you play it safe or take a risk?”
“Did you exit your comfort zone or were you complacent?
When you think of your time, how did you spend it?
What were you willing to die for? What did you stand for?
What do you think you will be remembered for?”
“Who do you expect to meet? YHWH, Jesus or Buddha?
Your ancestors, Allah or Krishna?
Where do you think you’ll go? Heaven, Hell or Nirvana?
Purgatory, Limbo, Sheol or Gehenna?”
He prowls across to your side ready to collect his dues.
You are trapped in the dungeon, vulnerable to his abuse,
Positioned antonymous to vertical, your life comes to meaning in the jail cell
Your contribution to the world ends. Your life but a story to tell.