Opens Both Ways
walking into death...
hands that grasped for so long,
learning to let go!
we spend our lives
in front of the easel...
and now the paint begins to dry.
at best, our dying
is the culmination of,
the fulfillment of destiny,
perhaps...
it finalizes the giving,
leaving the perfume of identity
hanging in the air.
we make love on a bed of pine needles,
small impressions on the ground.
the earth turns, the tides return,
the fires gone dim with stillness.
nothing to fear that we can change,
we've already laid the plank.
the door opens both ways...
the key on the windowsill!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Added by Poetry Lover
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