The Brushing
Death with its deep mysterious eyes,
Its arms softened by the moonlit air,
Its legs with that of a playful gazelle,
In pursuit of me down the mountain,
Skiing around the wicked cliffs with me,
Brushing against my cheek,
And whispering in my ear,
“Danger, thou art in the throes of it.
I wait for you with my loving arms.
The fall is a gentle cascade,
A romp in the paradise of the hereafter,
A contentment of thy fears,
A mystery settling inside thy house
And lying down with you on your bed.
I am in the flowing of thy adrenalin,
In the sweetness that goes to your palate,
The fine wine that soothes your tongue,
And the velvet arms that catch you
As you reach the bottom of the mountain,
The landing softened by the arms of death,
And the paradise of the hereafter.
Which is of thy choosing?
An escape from the boredom
Of your cushiony life?
Of that rubber room of yours?
A life made easy by your
Fear of the macabre?
Or the hanging onto the
Last thread of life
For the love of life?
If that be for the love of life,
Be safe my friend
And ease thyself down the mountain.
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