footsteps echo along the corridor
not of many but of one
they beat ceaselessly
on a floor of neither carpet nor tile
nor wood; only black
never stopping, yet slowing now and again
the more they slow, the faster they go
as if someone is searching frantically
and panicking when they find nothing

at last they come to a rest
in a place where all have stopped before
all have made a choice here
for better or for worse
for some it was the last choice they made
this place is nowhere
this place is everywhere
this place is in between the doors
between the doors of life and death
between these doors everyone stops

the corridor is silent
as our footsteps have stopped
no door has been opened
no choice made yet

they know what life is:
wild, sad, joy, love, tears,
heartbreak, sun, rain, fear

they think they know what death is:
blackness, nothing, non-existent
but do they really know?
how can they be sure?
no one truly knows
they don't know what death is

they've been in the corridor
they know it is not safe nor dangerous
not happy or sad
no sun or rain
it is nothing

so now they must choose
how can they know what is right?
they just want out of a world of hurt
getting out seems so easy
but could it be hard?