I stand at death’s door with a smile on my face,
The same smile I have every time I come by.
I rub the cold iron of the door;
I can hear the howl of oblivion behind it,
A shrill static that rakes the mind
With nails of broken glass.
The handle is warm from every other time
I gripped, hoping that I could find
The courage to throw it open.
It isn’t even the static I fear,
But thoughts of what might be should death not accept me,
Should my crippled, broken body be
Cast from the cavernous depths,
Draped in a robe composed of shame, indignance, regret.
As I said, I stand there, knowing too well
My own answer: “Maybe another time.”
Were the tears not purged from my body,
They would wet the handle, the floor, and the door itself.
To let go is to face the shame and disappointment,
To go forth is to reject the Lord’s anointed.