Old Chaos, Dependency, Solitude

On the planets of immortal life
(There are several, though they’re rarer
Than the planets where life requires death)

There are always those few who decide
They’d like to bring an end to their lives,
Which sometimes involves bureaucracy,

So that it’s nearly impossible
To die without getting permission
And still complicated, even then.

Living as waiting for permission
To die’s tedious, to say the least,
And some give up and go on living.

Every so often, an immortal
Who’s forgotten the application,
Maybe even forgotten the wish,

Receives surprise notification
And has to once again think through things.
It’s a stressful time for them and kin,

Given the window of permission
Won’t stay open long, and immortals
Are unused to urgent decisions.

On occasion, someone will linger
Until the last minute, then give in
And keep living, knowing it’s likely

They won’t get as good a chance again.
These ones often end up regretful,
So much so they take the maddening

Journey of relative centuries
In capsules, doing next to nothing,
For the chance to tour, as aliens,

One of those worlds with the envious
Tendency to swift mortality
In all or almost all living things.

By the time they land, they’re half insane
From the solitude of the journey
And beyond desperate to end things,

Which of course is frustrating to them,
As every attempt to go native
Only ends in fresh resurrection.

There’s rumored to be one wanderer
Whose mind is so chaotic, so lost,
That he’s tried planet after planet,

Even returning to some of them,
Attempting endless violent ends,
Dependent on hope for redemption.