01-18-2013, 11:31 AM
The stories you’ve been told are wrong;
this is no mild passage
to golden streets. There is no comfort-
ing metaphor for this state.
The breath escapes,
the body shudders, exhales.
Life unzips like an old coat,
discarded.
Memories drown in the river
facts alone remain, well-worn stones
without significance. This is lost to us,
a Lethean draught, irremediable
concealing loves, cares that bind, tying
us to this world, that we may not leave
this woman at my bedside, my wife,
presses a damp cloth to my face.
She has become
an actress in an old movie
that I might have watched once.
These recollections form an endless list
of mocking credits rolling
NamesUponNamesUponNames
in this oppressive quiet
ForeverForeverForever.
this is no mild passage
to golden streets. There is no comfort-
ing metaphor for this state.
The breath escapes,
the body shudders, exhales.
Life unzips like an old coat,
discarded.
Memories drown in the river
facts alone remain, well-worn stones
without significance. This is lost to us,
a Lethean draught, irremediable
concealing loves, cares that bind, tying
us to this world, that we may not leave
this woman at my bedside, my wife,
presses a damp cloth to my face.
She has become
an actress in an old movie
that I might have watched once.
These recollections form an endless list
of mocking credits rolling
NamesUponNamesUponNames
in this oppressive quiet
ForeverForeverForever.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson