There is an abyss I know.
Sometimes darkness is unnerving because of the magnitude of what pulls.
Learning to swim in an undertow is a sure way to drink, but salt makes for a dry body.
That special ratio that does not stay, does not hydrate. The thrist when drowing in an ocean.
The dark time is here. We know from the cold, who hints at her lack of mercy.
Light will disperse, like light does. The cold will soon be all I am, all the way through.
The biting air will force me to survey what is left of my life, my breath.
Everything will take on the composting tone, the night-kissed hues, and the clouds.
Now is when we churn, and turn we do. We become soil. Eclipses of the sun.
Life feeds on life, and death, and life again, later.
Who can bare it who is not in love with dying?
Perhaps more are in love with being reborn.
But how many are in love with slowing down,
to the ever-intrinsic point where being stops: the stillness after the exhale,
the vacancy – before the in-breath revives…
There is always a pause. The threat of emptiness.
Here is where I am chewed to a pulpous rendition, an exiguous form.
Here is where I let the blanket of the deep enclose me, cool my skin, keep the fire small.
Here is where colors defer to the lips of the arctic: the signs of impending blankness, the temptation of her faint blue – shade of the chill.
There is a kiss of life, and a kiss of death. I not fight whose time has come.
I be blessed in my demise. I see me, and I let me go.
Here is my cocoon. I become chrysalis.
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Photo from Flikr, Christian A. Stray