Looking Back . . . . .

I could have died many times but then I did not,
it wasn't my time, no calendar, perhaps God forgot;
my mother died forty years or so after my father,
you can go now, or after your serial, if you'd rather.

Serial? Yes - we do, watch things, isn't that right?
Perhaps you see your own life as a constant fight;
my younger brother died at seven and went to heaven,
I never knew him but I'll be ready when he comes again.

I used to be in your 'serial' but then they killed me off,
re-structuring they called it, said my part was enough;
choose your method of demise, 'How convenient,' she cries,
I barely had the time, threw away the script, no goodbyes.

They say I look the same, a fine upstanding young man,
I've been reborn and found myself back where it all began.