Death (Poem)

Death is
the crescendo and the zenith
of life’s wave.
The crest and the final spring
of soul’s journey into the
stars and the stones.
No, it’s not a pale poem
or a coldly thing
but a redolent perfume
perfected by the
the flowering of finished fates.
The captain did not
leave for a final dignity or
damnation to stay with phantoms
but just took a tiny repose
in the synchronous unity,
to again give ear to
the primordial songs of silence
and the melodies of the multitude.
it’s not martyrdom
not a flight into oblivion
just a
post carted by the continental
and the maritime air masses
to the infinite.
A small pause in the
comet’s cruise.