A Question
Something cold once touched my face,
a wind that blew from some strange place.
It softly whispered in my ear,
come follow me and have no fear.
The path we took I could not see,
each step was steeped in mystery.
Far from familiar things was led,
the ties that bind now but a thread.
A wicked thought soon came to mind,
t'was planted there for me to find.
Just how close could I come to death,
before handing over my final breath?
From time to time I take that walk,
with the whispering wind I sit and talk.
As the years pass, the question still remains.
If I glimpse through Death's dark door,
my life will I retain?
5/7/19
Copyright © Wren Rushing | Year Posted 2019
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