Port of Call
O Death, how dost thou captivate the mind
And shape one’s final days as light grows dim.
Though man in earnest looks, naught will he find;
Close to thy breast are held thy secrets grim.
For some, inchoate fear of the unknown;
For others, quests unfinished, incomplete.
Some acquiesce to toss a worm a bone;
’Tis rare the ones with open arms thou greet.
In these, perhaps a hint of the divine
Has sparked imagination, fancies spawned.
Yet faith that takes a leap must not consign
When breaking free into the great beyond.
Assured, yes, but I shan't be in thy thrall,
For thou art but an ordained port of call.
—————
[ Death ]
for the It’s All About Three Qs Poetry Contest
sponsored by Constance La France
written on 07/08/2022
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