Hands of Our Own

Many a time
I have been to the place
Where man has died
By the hand of his own,
Expecting soul crushing sadness
But finding
The greatest presence
Is the presence of none.
There is no weight gained or weight lifted,
There is no song unsung,
But instead, an emptiness
So soul-sucking that one might wonder,
In taking ones own life,

To what destination does the spirit go?
Does it spin away unceasingly,
Not stopping to linger as it surely
Left its home in such a rush?
Or does it simply no longer exist...
Willed by its bodily captor
Not to depart and never return,
But to cease all being,
Completely and indefinitely,
Leaving us desperately questioning
And searching for any sign
Of said spirit,
Just to cling to a hope that
It isn't
Really
Gone. 

◄ The Door

Morning Medicine ►

Comments

No comments posted yet.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message