Why should I be afraid   

of a fear that detained 

much of my time,

of a problem that 

only needs a solution,

of an answer to my 

most valid questions,

of which if I find 

I shall find the 
conclusions.

Life is a journey to reach his abode;

a voyage that started since i was a brood.

Disease, old age, frustration are his stations;

reaching him is an end of one's mission.

He is the opponent

of every life's warrior,

the barbells that weighs down 

the extent of their strength;

Everywhere's a hunt-down

for a sign of his trace,

hoping to find solace

in the darkness of his grace.

(Every day's a constant reminder

that the tic-tac of time 

is not just a sound,

but the tip-toe 

the voices of his footsteps,

…whispering the sign 

that he is just around.)

And why should I be afraid

of world’s most common occurrence,

of something a fool in misery 

can with no fear squeeze,

of something for the simple

is nothing but a rest,

of a gift that I only have to accept,

of a reality that at times I try to forget,

of a fright dream that keeps me awake,

of the ultimate test of everyone's faith.

"For those who took birth 

death is certain", said He;

as birth is certain 

for those with no life lay.

I was told that I'd been dead 

a million or a thousand times

in many ways and many forms,

in times and places I have not known.

Reason why another death 

should be just like a passing day,

another sleep, another rest, 

another night that is waiting 

and hoping for the dawn 

of a new day.

So why should those searchers who claim

And believed that they are and should be wise;

tremble in fear and pitifully cry,

justifies a folly by the logic of a fool,

just to make dying appear

dramatically cool.

O I’m sad when I hear them cry.

O I cry when a friend is about to die;

but primarily not because they are dying;

but because their fear is a sign 

of their failure to learn

what was taught

and what was offered to them;

a solution by the most compassionate friend,

so that in this life  nothing as sweet they'll find

as of death's sweet caress.

Once I long for

death’s cold cruel arms,

For a reason not of a wise;

But of a moron who dreamed-of of a home

In this temporary world of illusion.