It Comes Without Trumpets

It Comes Without Trumpets No fanfare, no golden light that we know of. It comes without a pale horse. Sometimes silent during the night, perhaps peaceful but perhaps not. No one knows the dreams at that time which could presage it, Leaving behind only silence in the morning forever. Sometimes in a crowded busy space surrounded by strangers rushing past, who then hesitate, starring at the crumpled, inert form. Or sometimes perhaps alone without any eyes to see. Or sometimes in a surgical suite where unexpectedly you recede from time and place floating as masked people rush to staunch the flight of life as the futility timer blinks inexorably, until everything vanishes, and there is only muted silence. Or sometimes in the comfort of home surrounded in your bedroom by children and grandchildren and vestments. As you embrace, the embrace, of who comes for you. Surcease from pain, tears of beholders. There are no trumpets, No pale horses, no boatmen. You merely retreat from the book of time, Lingering, then, only as a memory in others, Who also share a common destiny. Written in their own book of time. David Holmes April 27 2021