A Perfect Time

How will I die? Not the cause—no need
to know how it will occur, or when, or where.
But will it be with eyes open, all avoidance
evaporated, a stillness at the core in those
final moments—seeing how they reflect back,
illuminating a whole life, the whole world?

Or will I die like a dog, cringing from the lash,
making feeble, futile gestures of resistance?
Or a monkey, yakking to itself, caught
in its cage of words, its second-hand life?
Better to depart with my humanity intact,
bowing to my fate, at peace.

And since the end could come at any moment,
perhaps now is a perfect time to face life
as if I was facing death unafraid.

Perhaps now is a perfect time to resign
from the ranks of the walking wounded,
to stand up straight, resolute, grateful—
to kiss the world that gave birth to me,
and will, just as fairly,
take that life back again one day—
in its own perfect time.

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