The Liberal Lens: Finding Life in the Moment

A poem about confronting the Grim Reaper in a moonlit cemetery, seeking solance and answers about life, death, and a final farewell to a lost soul. This is a poignant reflection of mortality, and one of my favorite poems that I was able to pull out from my heart in a time of heavy grief and sorrow.

Wordless thoughts gently float through my mindscape,
as I sit with you fallen; the cemetery as my escape.
Pictures flit past my mind’s eye, as i sit here alone,
the lunar light casting my shadow upon a gravestone.

Of course, I’m not alone in this cemetery,
after all, the reaper visits this sanctuary.
Its presence not welcome nor unwelcome,
after all it’s just me and the fallen, how glum.

“I know you’re listening, Mr. Death,
and I know I should save my breath,
but you took her way too quickly,
how could you let this be?”

No response, unfortunately — perhaps it feels guilt?
How naive that would be. Her soul’s another in its quilt.
That quilt, woven through numerous millennia to today,
now contains her soul. I bet the thing would look gray.

“Well, please keep listening, Mr. Death,
so I know I’m not wasting my breath,
if there’s just a thing as the underworld,
correct me if I’m wrong with what I’ve inferred:

“She’s just past that barrier between life and death, Mr. Death,
of course on the side under your reign, she gave her last breath.
If that’s right, Mr. Death, and you haven’t corrected me yet,
then please indulge me in one last request, just one bet.

“I bet on my life if I can cross that river Styx alive,
then I get one last chance to tell her goodbye.”

Gentle wind passes through the moonlit cemetery,
I feel my heart thudding through my rib cage in its sanctuary.
On my shoulder I feel a boney hand belonging to Mr. Death,
I feel an acceptance hang over my soul, so I take a breath.

“Thank you, Mr. Death,”
It doesn’t waste its breath.