What would you do, if you knew the date of your last day?
The exact moment of your execution?
Would you pray?
What would you think of?
What would you try to change?
Would you try to reconcile with all those whose lives you tainted?
If you knew the exact time and day of your death, how would you behave?
When you get to stare the grim reaper in the face
What would you conjure up in the space that captivates your eyes in your last time being alive?
How would you feel if someone determined the exact moment in time that you would lose your life?
How will you cope with death? What things are you thinking to know that these moments are timers on your last breath?
What do you think?
When you sit in that chair,
Do you come to terms with the end
Do you quiver in fear until your soul disappears?
Do you cry until your eyes fall out of your head?
Do you lie to yourself up until the end?
Do you succumb to the truth as you lead up to?
The moment that you’re in that booth,
Or that chair, or that table
Do you see a beautiful meadow as the poison seeps in
Do you imagine a raging sea as the electricity burns your skin
Or do you think of your family? And their loving smiles
How would you feel to sit in a box, and know the exact moment your sand stops
They say we see who someone really is when they’re staring at death,
Who do they become when they know the angel is coming?