Several years ago
a friend
introduced me to
a book of
death poems.

I read them.
I read every poem
in the book.

Very few
spoke to me;
some were gross,
some were funny,
some were downright
dark and dreary.

A few were profound,
personal, meaningful
and even enlightening.

Most reflected our
cultural denial of death,
or Edgar Allen Poe’s
poetic orgy in the pit.

I have found
writing death poems
to be rather meaningful.

After all,
dying is totally universal
and quite personal
at the same time.

No one gets
to experience
the inside view
of another’s passing.

You may sit near by,
hold my hand,
listen to my breathing,
and my final breath.
You may close my
eyes for the final time
but my moment of death
is mine to experience
and to cherish.

I alone shall
my bardo of becoming.

While you tend
my death certificate
and memorial service
and put my ashes
in their assigned places,

While you go on
with your life,
paying your bills
and driving to work

my soul
will have been
born again
past the mystery of time
and space

into Something
and Somewhere
faith and imagination,
beyond hopes and fears,
beyond all opposites.

I do have a fantasy
about it all.
I fantasize being released
into all time and all space,
no longer a drop of water
finding its way towards
the Ocean
that I now have become.

June 15, 2017
Hal Edwards

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