Death is not the bliss that happens to others,
It is the doom that happens to us.

When we die,
Surmount the encumbrance of existence,
Procure the scrupulous effulgence of permanence
And reach the light at the end of the crawlway,
We can no longer evaluate and contemplate
Our cessation.
But when one dies
And we still take the train,
Relinquish a shortcut to the glow,
It is the core and essence that need revolt,
Against their demise.

Death is natural to the highest degree,
We are accustomed to
Morgues, cemeteries, sanctuaries, sepulchres,
Crematoriums, battle fields.
It could be said that our life
Is in complete resemblance with our death.
But death is unnatural even in the highest decree
The edict of the King,
Or the verdict of the Judge at the Court of Law,
Or the ire of the Lieutenant-General at the tribunal,
Or of God toying with his icicle in the permafrost.

The death of a salesman or a clerk,
A captive or a refugee,
An outcast vagabond or the President,
A prisoner of Will or a prisoner of Justice,
A serial cutthroat or a tot,
Is a calamity.

Death is unfair, it is despotic, because it is the
termination
Of existence.  How hypocritical:
Survival, our cardinal objective, diminished.
He who will read our plea to fairness,
Go, went, gone.