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Her Final Zenith

J Ann Crowder

Upon her mossy bed she sleeps, spelled by her antiquated dreams
 
Many a night’s deep slumber her lungs, now weary, have risen and fallen on a blackness of sacred air
 
A mellifluous drum ever beats to her life’s melodies—now, soothing like spindled shafts of sun’s golden hue
 
Within her dream’s final beating song she gazes out from an old pane window, paint chipped, fixated on the white blossoming crown of of an old almond tree
 
Her own white silky head flourishingly glows, in like fashion, within a moonlit room
 
A magnificent blue moon lays restfully painted upon an eternal horizon
 
Angels of burning bronze and blazing eyes distantly march
 
Skies whistle a peaceful salute as stars wishfully beckon her home
 
Her skin, kissed by ageless sunrises, tells her story—each gentle line exemplifying years forged in a journey’s battlefield
 
Soon, she heaves earthy winds no more as she departs from her last dusk—like wrinkled, fire ignited leaves departing from branches of cedar
 
Alas, she bids farewell to her final zenith
 
Arriving Angels swiftly catch her drifting spirit, flying her to God’s ceaseless throngs
 
Now, she resides within heaven’s eternal cosmos of Milky Way
 
Betimes, she soars upon those wishful shooting stars, silently watching other dreamers magically dreaming on many days of eventide

Written February 8th, 2017. On age, life and death. I'd like to go peacefully like this, with angels marching to take me home.

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