Who Else Would I Talk to?

(a few bars with Rahsaan Roland Kirk's circular breathing)

Some days there is nothing to me but fear and dread,
Some days I grow tired of being a fatalist.

All of us intent;
looking forward,
solitary headlamps peering forward
into the darkness of eternity.
We have ears, but do not hear;
questions, but afraid to ask.
But there is one who listens.
Who else would I talk to?

I guess I've led a sheltered life,
and so only now felt felt the touch of death,
whose metaphors abound:
it's bony fingers tighten around my neck,
the tumblers falling into place one by one,
The slot machine suddenly lining up
cherry. cherry, cherry...
You think to yourself,
they never do that;
I'm never been that lucky
No. Its something else:
betrayed by the flesh. Oh,
there is no doubt,
the flesh betrays us all.
It's easy enough and doesn't need
the thirty pieces of silver.
Still, it wakes me up early,
my feeble brain struggling
to throws it's simple net around eternity;
my halting voice
with a question or complaint.
But there is one who listens
while all of us intent...
Who else would I talk to?