On Death

The touch is firm upon the flesh

of death; the wrap of slow embrace.

A drawing closer till the breath

in silent lifting rises still

and yearns to break through barren lips;

a final freeing from the Self

of Soul released and barely held.

And yet the moments follow on

in watchful waiting, days deep drawn,

of endless dying made as one;

a threading of the final hours,

eternity is sown within,

the stitches silken, holding close

the memories and fading thoughts.

Life lingers on beyond the call

in reaching for the final sum,

accounting of the drifting years

and dreadful days which she has known

and which will litter long the nights,

sweet-cling to dreams created yet,

within the garment of the soul,

a last, black brightness

holding fast within the milk-white,

withered face;

reflecting back the dark embrace.

 And death draws closer,

girds her loins, enfolds the body,

strokes the mind, lays bare the bones

in crepe-loose skin,

disturbs the final drape of life.

The moment come, the shades are drawn,

the messenger with bright-spread wings

brings dreams of angels; whispered words

and glowing golden through the mist

draws close to give the celestial kiss.

The breath of death is scarcely felt

upon the cold, grey shrink of cheek,

yet life in final yielding stirs

and deep within is heard the call:

breath-held,  the moment beckons still,

and then relents … surrenders all.

 http://poeticbloomings.com/2012/09/16/death-be-not-proud-prompt-73/