The Dust of Flowers
I am afraid of fear; the fear of my acknowledgement
of frailty and mortality of the self.
Afraid of rejection on the other side, and of the other
side itself.
I am afraid of the shock of knowing that I have died
soon after my dying,
and/or not knowing that I have died after my dying
is done.
I am afraid of all that is unknown; of change and
unfamiliarity.
Afraid of timelessness; of a permanent state of a new
and alien consciousness; of stagnation.
I am afraid of the cold beyond the flame of the sun;
afraid of a still, anaesthetic silence in the hugeness
of the beyond.
Is there any sound, any bird-song beyond the beyond?
I am afraid of the newness of the coffin, and of the journey,
slow, in a shining car.
Afraid of my deafness to the organ’s music
– and of the dust of flowers.
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