Yellow Room

Is death a yellow room where life is stored?
No windows, no carpets, no door 
where I may review my life 
to determine value;

to learn who were my friends, 
those I hurt without intending; 
to judge if I learned from mistakes 
and some corrected.

Did ever I learn to love? Did I forgive?
Was I a loyal partner? 
Did I make for anyone a difference?
Did I even try?

These questions occupy my thoughts 
towards the end of life.
Maybe that’s the reason for death: 
it imposes silence,

offers time for satisfaction and regret, 
since we individually must judge for ourselves 
regardless of gender or race 
and, especially, age. 

Is death an opportunity for learning?
What then’s the point 
if there’s no time for correction?
Even regret.