Archive 06/19/09 - (2)

   

Naked Truth

                                                                  

Before we can barely turn around

(Or is it "Before we can turn around, barely?"),

We find ourselves dressed to the nines, inside our caskets,

In our freshly embalmed flesh and osseous matter,

Our spirits at terrestrial rest, our souls safely flown home.

 

Rather than finding the immense silence stifling,

We sense, as best as disembodied essences can,

A transcendence we never achieved in our material lives,

An ethereality born of ultimate liberation,

A quietude alive with the infinite registers of serenity.

 

And so it leaves — our decomposing corporeality —

Just as it arrived, from the uterus of human existence,

Naked as angels and putti in Renaissance paintings.

"How could you know all this," you must be asking,

"Unless you've already crossed that grave divide?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                               

 

06/19/09 - (2)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
       

 

 
   
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