Death
I felt nothing
Meeting his body
Shrunk, motionless
A log, plastinated by white enshrouding cloak
I felt nothing
Trailing this log to its final abode
Six feet under
I felt nothing
As the planks decked over
Cracking out darkness
From the bright sunny day
I felt nothing
As the red earth shoveled over
Levelling all but the mound of grave marker
I felt nothing
Walking away
Leaving him to the truth he found
Is it peace or serenity; torment or nothing?
Is it eternal or transient; selective or uniform?
Truth which still elude us
I felt nothing
Save an eerie self-questioning
A constant asking
If this is how death feels:
Raw nothingness
Minutes rolled into hours, hours rolled into days
Every moment themed by flashes of memory
Breaking out from the past
Memories striking of what remained of resentment
And anger
Now I know
That death isn’t an event or a moment
but a lingering sense of loss
And now I know
That death is a warm spring of nostalgia
Sneaking up on the stream of thought
And now I know
That death is a flood of nothingness
Smothering the rough edges of grief
And now I know
That death is a rite of passage
An ascent into sorrow
Copyright © Ibrahim Mohammed | Year Posted 2020
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