Semicolon

If a man die, shall he live again

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It’s just a pause; I wanted to write in a period

so badly,

to ease off my shoes and weary bones and flit

in spirit,

continue exploring the cosmos of God,

dance in

the love that fuels the eternal beginnings of things

like me,

but in death, as in life, my hand shapes the beginnings

of a semicolon,

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

that comma hovering under the period, the moment

of rest

I long for but know I must leave suspended in

the air

for another day; although the heavens dazzle,

captivate me,

Earth is a one-time cruise—enjoy the proud palms

and rush

of ocean air or mighty crowns of mountains or

streaming, glittering

sand or mist of God-sent rain greening the ground;

enjoy the lush,

barbaric, fierce, sweet ride that always ends in death—

dangerous living,

and I must return; she needs me; he fears the end

and I

can blaze a new understanding of death’s door;

my children

will be raised by me once more;

periods

are for the dead and fearful—

and I’m going back