Respite

They say death is absence,
The black negative,
The void.
The infinitum of space minus the stars
And our souls dissolve
Our thoughts spill out like melted wax,
Harden,
Crumble,
And disappear.
Each brittle triangle of skin
Dries and shatters,
Absorbed by the cosmos
And we are nothing.

But there is soft music in death,
A drifting hum
Of all the voices past,
Passed on to carry new ones through.
It can be heard,
That hum of the universe
Calling us back to Before Birth
And the After Life.
To the comfort arms where we may lie and sigh out
The burdens of the Earth
And te dark, heavy
Fullness of
The Human song.
It is creation and rest,
The pregnant swell of New
And the gentle snuff of faltered light.

~Caitlin Taylor

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