Revised: The Undiscovered Country

[heslopian]

“Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns” – William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 3, scene 1

My head is propped on eiderdown pillows,
My hands laced over my breasts like willows.
I don’t recall the scene of my demise,
Or how from the pit my spirit did rise.
In truth I rarely consider my fate,
But ponder instead what will my heart sate.
How could I know the joy of loneliness,
While caught in a pretence of godliness.
So vain, so arrogant my budding heart,
That I would never tolerate the smart.
But now as torches light my rotten flesh,
My soul is lost in a dream’s cotton mesh.
No longer do I envy the unborn,
But pity those mortals I’ve left to mourn.

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original;

“Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns” – William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 3, scene 1

My head is propped on eiderdown,
my wasted hands folded like clasps
over a bosom now still.
I don't remember how I died.
I rarely think about it much.
Too lost in dreams is my rambling soul,
eternity's hushed cinema, where I am
the only patron. Not once in life
would I have believed the ecstasy of solitude,
as each moment, scraped knees, old wounds,
kisses, sex, illness and joy, flows through
my rotting flesh. Stringing fairy lights across
my ribs and silent jaw. I hope I never leave this shore.
That my energy, my soul, stays locked within
this varnished box, while those above, still suffering, mourn.