I slept for a while
here amongst the damp earth,
where I can hear the dragonflies
and the slow ticking as worms count time
past my countenance.
I hold no fear of death.
Death is a finality -
a culmination of all my loose ends
embroidered with rotting leaves
and sown into roots and ashes.
I am no fool for you to tell me
there is life;
something to fashion fantasies of
white light and whispers.
Life is taken in the deep, dark waters
where the last heartbeat has no echo;
nor ears to be heard.
No lips will speak in hushed tones;
I tell you -
Death is an ending;
a last and final ovation to
an empty choir,
peaceful and encient as this.
Damp earth, dragonflies and worms.
This is death.
Can you not hear it?
It calls my name,
seduces me with promise.
Its voice could crumble nations.
It sits in the shadows beneath the elm,
beneath the oak and in the acorns.
This is no plea;
no cry for salvation.
I have found my place,
here among the damp earth, the dragonflies
the worms, the elm, the oak.
Even here, amidst the acorns,
I am found.