What Kind of Paradise

Death is increasingly my friend as breath subsides; it hides no pretense of regret or fear, but lets me own it as a coverlet that I will know as now is lover of eternity. It is most gracious. Candles all around me silently snuff out and share their peace in trails of rising smoke that teach me of their transience, speak as voice may not of faithless time--of a reward confined to castles in the clouds or barefoot, unwashed gods with spirit swords. This body graces me with death enough to yield eternal joy: if consciously, no promise need be made, if not, a dreamless nap devoid of tangled bedclothes, thunderstorms outside, or mattress out of warranty; insidious alarms will not exist, nor yet the "I" to stand apart and wonder why. ~