Time Of Death (Rev/Rep) Poem by Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr

I remember the night I died
orbed circles spinning o'er me,
permeating my cold, pallid flesh.
I spoke....but no-one could hear me.

And amid this passage, bizarre as it felt
I did feel upon me a thousand smiles
of those I'd crossed paths with indifference.
I smiled back....but no-one could see me.

I saw myself over a man in crisis...it was me,
men and women in masks and pale green gowns,
some far too long as if wings belonged-
over their shoulders, while they hurried to call
for heavy machines of resurrection...
working hard, fast...clamorously loud...'till silence.

'Time o' death' the last voice I heard,
fading at the moment I'd passed.
I could smell verdant fields,
taste the aroma of a breeze so fresh,
as I stood o'er me, watching my soul
in exodus and unbalanced flight,
streamed billowing smoke
from the pores of my mortal flesh.

Such surrealistic beauty,
made me wonder if Salvadore Dali
wasn't stumping for the Arch Angel, Michael,
till my hot, pallid flesh
began to sweat, how it burned so cruel;
thought it might be the sins I had laid,
retribution and consequence;
and I'll swear it all true with much regret
upon the bible of James The King.

I died one night...but it wasn't my time,
so, here I am, eyes open again,
enjoying in Life's vibrancy,
unlike they who have much to fear
to Life's certain finality,
and wait in its' anxious prologue
mute of voice or choice;


__________ F j R __________

*Revised 12-04-17
Reposted 10-10-17