At Eighty-Four Years Old
it caught me this time. my luck rode away and i am here. it possesses many mansions. fine and prepared. i cannot witness him. i perceive he is here. i breathe from my walk, rest next to a throne with the markings of all nations. past and present. evil hearts cannot pass here. they throw different tongues swaying in a breeze.
the triumph of entry is calm with palm branches. salvation of mind, vested. i raise to view the feature. my soul is intact. i sold nothing. the tears stopped. brilliant waters flow. no thirst. i hear ten-thousand-year-old songs. i want to write them. no need.
a company assembles. white dress. he is here. the one with blood smears draws the order. i can feel his light expressed in the gems of the walls. no limit. forever upward, elegant. an outline steps the golden avenue towards me.
—- He watched you, my brother. He knows you are here. Walk with me.
Copyright © Ferris Jones | Year Posted 2020
|