Close lies death,
And all who are here
Know it.
The pall hangs deep,
Permeating all that is near.
Conversations kept in hushed tones
To facilitate the act of dying,
As our culture believes,
That somehow,
It is work best done behind closed doors.
Death brings with it
An aroma;
Grandma’s house without the smells
Of baking bread or roasted chicken,
For the food comes
From the good virtue of trusted friends,
As the vigil wears on
And prayers are raised to the Most High.
We do not know with certainty
Where go the thoughts of the dying,
But we hear of angels who accompany us,
And, oh, what a comforting thought.
Bring me one of God’s winged own
To raise my spirit to Him.
But for those of us left behind,
Death leaves us vacant,
For the fabric of life’s rich reign
Has been seared.
We are left only with our faith,
The pillar on which leans
Our spiritual selves.
Once death is known,
We long to quell the pain of others;
For we know the bruising tide,
But them
Who have absorbed all that they might bear,
Need little more than warm embrace,
Sparce expressions grant them,
For simple words carry not safe harbor -
And penetrate not the aura of grief.
God, give us respite from our tears,
And a confidence of Elysian peace,
For my days do not begin again,
Until my lover rests with thee.