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Death's Embrace - A Soliloquy by Stewart Stafford
In sincere tongue, declare with heart:
Art thou but a mimic, shadow of the art,
Or standest thou bold, architect of the new,
Crafting the morrow in thy vision true?
Unburden me from this oppressive weight,
I cannot bear this overwhelming force.
Despair hath found its pinnacle in me,
And I must peer into realms unknown,
If cherished sight fails me at mine end,
I shall renounce all chimeras of the light.
But fall not tamely from Life’s precipice,
Death presses hard on thy frail fingers,
Hold on, cry, resist thy certain ruin!
Trouble's court, may yet bestow thee favour.
Dreams are but fancies giv’n swift wings,
That soar beyond the bounds of reason;
In minds that dare to fly unshackled,
The dreamer becometh the vision.
Love is both a journey and destination:
Long and painful upon the path,
Unsought, yet blissful when it is found.
From dust conjur’d — to stars, we’re turned.
Beware the self-righteous man,
Whose pride does unseat the very world
Before he sees his error.
Piteous wounds of thine own hand,
'Tis easy to judge from afar
Without walking with aching bones.
If there be cause that yet remaineth here,
It showeth their harshness and injustice
To themselves and their loving others.
Mourn their release with mercy and thanks
Transient whispers guide along chance’s way.
Weep not for those who have found Death’s embrace,
They lament for us who tarry on old shores.
Death but ushers a veiled dawn, not life's twilight,
A metamorphosis of guise, not of the spirit's light.
Though we must part for now, we shall be one again.
For love’s wrought by flesh, yet holds not its chain.
Time-worn age stoops; penitents depart.
Pawned as one in vigilant trance
But what a folly 'tis to mark the signs of our undoing;
Memory's comet trails bequeathed to loved ones left,
Contagion's rehearsal on the ephemeral stage.
With luck, a stand-in may go on in thy stead.
Ere thy final bow becomes unavoidable.
With tyrant Death prowling public ways,
I turn from mankind hence to seek delight.
A chamber ceiling seen upon morn's wake,
I say: “The sun does rise? Let's haste away!”
Upon waking, a stone tomb's ashen lid,
I would perchance say: “Alas!..mine eyes do grow heavy.”
A life well-liv’d is not weigh’d by earthly goods
Or the number of mourners at the grave.
Numerous, deep laugh lines tell the tale,
On the face of the person lying still in the crypt,
Reveals threescore years and twelve’s true worth.
Death is not the villain of the piece;
It is the next phase of life, in strange attire.
I accept my fate with grace and courage.
For I have liv’d and lov’d and dream’d enough.
© Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.
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