Looking Through the Throes of Death

Slowly, I unlocked my steps
pressing my sores to the murky ground
pain becomes almost unbearable
will there be nails and thorns
a hole ready to engulf me
or a shroud trying to cover an unbreathing spirit?

Slowly, I shut my ears to hear nothing
including the raspy tremble of my fear
unwilling that I am close to a whisper
I said, “Am I Job’s reincarnation?”
my thoughts muttered underneath its breath,
“No. God isn’t that so hard.”

Slowly, I blocked my senses with a mantra,
“I would die an honorable woman.”
Then I fancied the oat cells scramble through my veins
like rebel troupes killing every innocent soul
leaving bomb shells that will detonateanytime soon.
Fiercely.

Slowly, I began to dread the silence
I was waiting for my soles to be pricked
or a thick cloud of darkness to embrace me
angry mavericks extricating my last ounce of oxygen
my thoughts dwindle in stupor for an explosion
but there was none.

“Am I still alive?”
My lungs inhaled the pollution of this city
then I exhaled a rant, “Off the hook!”
That’s when I realized I am inside a bus home
slept over half-way reading about Death by Jagad Guru
Siddhaswarupananda Paramahamsa.






Cancer killed my mother. I fear that the same oat cells would bring me to my grave. Ah, death!