Crematorium
The doctor's face has told me
Before he gets a chance to speak:
A cracked and barren landscape,
Dusty, dry, and bleak.
Someone took the floor away,
The words whistle past my ears.
The face has no expression
For when the future disappears.
I could have been the saviour
The world was waiting for.
A successful kind of Jesus
Still alive at thirty-four.
I could have been Prime Minister,
I could have been a king,
If I'd put off procrastination
I could have been anything.
Everyone's apologetic,
And it's honest as can be.
I can get away with murder
Because it's “better you than me”.
The postbox is full of clippings
About the long awaited cure
That's six months from production
And all I have are four.
I could have been a husband,
I could have had a wife.
I could have been a father
And insured my frail life.
I could have told my family
“It'll all work out okay”
While my partner stands behind the kids,
And shields them from her dismay.
I could have been a million things,
And perhaps I now will be
When that persistent crematorium
Gets its fingers into me.