Somewhere across town, hidden in a lonely maze of hospice corridors,
someone is dying again, breathing those last frail breaths before the final darkness.
An unknown nurse is left holding a bony, withered hand.

And I think, we are all heading toward that threshold alarmingly fast,
where we must plunge or sink, however defiantly or however serenely,
into the great oceanic mystery of recycled being.

In a strange way, I draw sustenance from that knowing,
knowing of death's supreme reign.

Maybe it's because it revels itself as a natural
rite of passage that we never needed to fear.

Twice this life I've entered that glowing passage
on the brink of the cosmic void beyond; my body
froze as my spirit soared free into wild shamanic visions.

Each time I miraculously returned, but I distinctly remember
relaxing into death as if I've performed it a hundred-thousand times.

The sure inevitability of death inspires me to live with unwavering passion,
to release a rhythmic vibration of cosmic imagination that will echo
into other lives once my soul shards dance and divide into
forever changing mosaic vortices.

In all our struggles we can defend our faith in the
great archetypal cycle of expressive being.

And the next time you see me, don't ask how I'm doing;
I'd rather you wonder how I'm being...