Reaching

I.

Floating freely in space,

Arms tired and weary.

Mind a blur,

Spinning and dizzy.

II.

Eyes unfocused.

Hearing impaired.

Mouth mute.

Nerves tingling.

III.

Body is heavy,

Yet being lifted,

Up to a place,

I’ve never seen.

IV.

My substance changing,

Dense and compact.

As if only half remains,

But twice as heavy.

V.

A pungent smell,

Fills my nostrils.

My senses alive,

Yet I feel dying.

VI.

I perish in pieces,

Though life fills me.

I feel the cold of death,

And the warmth of life.

VII.

A hand reaches,

It summons me.

As if to say,

Come unto me.

VIII.

I resist its call.

For if I go there,

Will that end I fear,

Follow my arrival?

IX.

There is silence,

Only a lilting breeze,

As I gently travel,

Through the air.

X.

What is this place,

That I’m headed for?

Is this a beginning,

Or is this the end?

XI.

A light sharply pierces,

This dark void I’m in.

Setting me ablaze,

With thoughts of eternity.

XII.

Shall I look away,

From this stabbing vision?

Is my will able,

To refuse its pull?

XIII.

Ever deeper and more lost,

No substance found,

No life. No death.

No peace. No turmoil.

XIV.

Seeking in vain,

Yet nothing is found,

Nor a soul in sight,

But I’m not alone.

XV.

The hand motions closer,

My heavy arm reaches,

Very nearly to touch it,

And then suddenly I awake!

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About John White

I've written off and on my entire life. It took years for me to finally take putting words together seriously. Now it's not, nor does it ever feel, like work. Writing daily has become habitual. No day is complete without words having appeared on the page.

Posted on August 22, 2014, in Poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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