Death patted the worn leather couch.
Placed in frigid temperatures…the seat seemed to come from 1970…or there about.
He did not offer a love song.
Though in his icy stare…
it had been apparent to see the End wished for me to stay.
His movement so flawed, so free, like a cold sweat on a summer’s day.
If I could only pass Death by…
There would be no need to ask why.
Positioned knee to knee…
‘should I stay or should I go.’
With a chance glance to smoke from a January sky…
I turned back and Death had gone.
Leaving me with only lyrics to a love song.
She had no oxygen…so I brought the metal devil to her.
Just a tourniquet for a blistered soul.
She never fared well, hot.
She never fared well, cold.
Quiet were her ways.
A tsunami were the words…she did not say.
One sinner could cling to her devotion.
Just as I, began to sink slowly in her god-fearing lifeboat.
Out and out, by myself, in a turbulent ocean.
Every Sunday metal tank set at ease.
No longer was she…to kneel before the hosanna.
Wheeled, forefront and center, beside other elders…
strands of rosaries, strung together like christmas lights.
A hymn all their own.
One Sunday with all the prayers of faith and health.
One Sunday…when the oxygen ran out.
DEATH, to the dead for evermore
A King, a God, the last, the best of friends –
Whene’er this mortal journey ends
Death, like a host, comes smiling to the door;
Smiling, he greets us, on that tranquil shore
Where neither piping bird nor peeping dawn
Disturbs the eternal sleep,
But in the stillness far withdrawn
Our dreamless rest for evermore we keep.
For as from open windows forth we peep
Upon the night-time star beset
And with dews for ever wet;
So from this garish life the spirit peers;
And lo! as a sleeping city death outspread,
Where breathe the sleepers evenly; and lo!
After the loud wars, triumphs, trumpets, tears
And clamour of man’s passion, Death appears,
And we must rise and go.
Soon are eyes tired with sunshine; soon the ears
Weary of utterance, seeing all is said;
Soon, racked by hopes and fears,
The all-pondering, all-contriving head,
Weary with all things, wearies of the years;
And our sad spirits turn toward the dead;
And the tired child, the body, longs for bed.
#Robert Louis Stevenson
I used to be much better about catching life, as it falls.
Course…that had been when the world was much…
When I had been much leaner…
and, the tears shed were much cleaner.
Now, as the scenery fades
Funeral Flowers continue to grow.
They do not age.
I used to be much better about catching life, as it fell.
Believing in the wishes…placed within a wishing well.
Would the matter make any difference if we could turn back time, together or apart?
Remove our granite love letter?
Wear sandals for the steps it took to get us here?
Instead of leaden wear steel- toed shoes…
The anonymity becomes unmasked from time to time.
Transgressions…etched forever in stone.
But with every stride…grave indecision, blindfolds my mind.
Conflicted…there is no joy in the ride.
And, no matter the journeys I take…Canterbury Confessions have nowhere to hide.
How remarkable the steps it takes to bury pride.