There was a time when things felt different.
The oddity of light coming through
curtains disturbing silent fibers
brought about a sense of wonderment.
My eyes morphed into a child’s;
my knowledge replaced by curiosity.
It was a glow that comes faster
than Gabriel’s note, Hermes’s letter.
Now, glories of annunciation have gone,
replaced with “Is it time to go?”
I’m ready in this flesh and liquid of crimson;
only my mind is hesitant, like a loon in circles.
Then the writing on my palms say,
“Are you ready? The boatman awaits.
You must leave regrets here, your sadness too.”
It is time to go, I hear Rachmaninoff.
The piece found in a Scottish winter;
let it come, replace this earth bound vessel.