I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless
dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see
what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer
now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall
myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being
dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the
glare. Not in remorse
-- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn
off unused -- nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to
climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total
emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be
lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more
terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No
trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical
brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No
rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is
what we fear -- no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to
think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none
come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small
unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to
indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation
of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or
drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets
no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than
withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It
stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we
can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile
telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the
uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as
clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house
to house.
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