The Object Of Life Is Death

So how does it feel To feel your grip upon life beginning to relax, To hear that far-off ferry, clanging it's bell Seemingly still distant; but you never know in this life: Could show up in the middle of the night, without a sound. Can you see the goodbye yet, teasing around the eyes Of your loved ones? Or that familiar leather smell of the suitcase, Waiting to finally get fed with some clothes; You can smell it from as far away as the corner; Because it knows you'll be leaving soon. Your guts know it; though nobody's told you; No official letter has rang at the door, Not even to run away and hide in the bushes, Not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. That's always a big clue; no eyes to meet your gaze, The white coats beating a quick retreat, down halls and behind desks. But some things your insides just know without ever being told. And in some ways, it's such a sentimental sort of journey That you begin to feel a slight breathlessness, Even at the raw edge of beginning to contemplate it. What will you miss the most, on this one-way trip, On which you can take along nothing at all- not even a memory, To keep you company? How does one begin to get ready for mental acceptance. Yet there are stories, surrounding us always We learn what to do, by watching what others have done. Sometimes the lesson is not to hold on, as tightly as you can, But just to try to begin to let go, as much as you can stand.. Strange that when you consider it all objectively, The object of life is death.