To the Rich Man

Are you frightened of dying?

Do you fret about camels and needles' eyes

And donate money as insurance?

(Insurance is a mortal conception, you know.)

After, you'll exchange one blanket of green for another

Will the new give more peace than the old?


To the Poor Man

Do you long for death?

Finality, security, warmth

Do you wish for such permanence?

To have peace and quiet and darkness


To finally be away from the crush of grasping, greasy people

To have you hollows filled, even if they're filled with dirt?


To the Average Man

Do you ignore death?

Do you hide it behind curtained rooms and plastic bags

And freezer doors and the scent

Of flowers?

You don't fear death

You believe you'll work forever

So why, then

Do you fear pain?