Morbidity

I have spent hours sitting in my room
Imagining what it is like to die,
Turning my walls into a mental tomb.
Would I exist, or would there be an I
To wonder that? Would those who found me here
Be sad, or just resigned, or even feel
A great weight lifted? Would a tear
Be spent, or would my death reveal
A strange lack of concern? And could I care?
Could, or would, I know? Is there a god,
A heaven? And if so, would I be there?
Or is there hell, where I, unlucky sod,
Might be confined? I wonder, but don't keep
Those wonders in my mind; I need to sleep.