Muffled Words That Fall Like Mud In The Air. Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

The blinds are closed.
Still a bit of daylight
filters through.
My hands, my 'me',
invades the space.
The bed flutters in the
softness of the room.

Tracing my limp body with
my matted hand.

I feel death.
Sense it.
Wait for it.

My body will be so cold
when it ceases existing
.
It frightens me.
Saddens me.
Empty cadaver emptied
of my essence.
Without a sound,
my soul will depart.

I pray.
Beg.
Implore.

'Dear God, let it not be so.'

But it must be as God decides.

Novenas and rosaries fervently said.
Muffled words that fall
like mud in the air.

When they come and prepare me
for my funeral,
I will not cry.
No. No tears.

Instead, embrace peacefulness.
Close the casket lid,
I'll be gone.