head hung low
where the road leads I will go,
it's a hard and a crooked life
when you're a dead man's unwedded bride.

the day moves slow,
where the road leads no one knows,
it's a hard and a crooked life
when you're a dead man's unwedded bride.

down by the road sits a man,
who's gray and old,
says the hardest thing I know
is to see your loved ones go.

where the wildflowers grow,
there's a lake that's dark deep and cold,
there I shall lay my bones.

down I go,
going to  lay my bruised bones,
and the hardest thing they'll know,
Is to have to let me go.

I was there,
Sitting in the kitchen as your children discussed
What your final months would be like.
It was right after the pumpkin and pecan pie had been eaten
And they were asking themselves if they should make you fight—
To not go gentle into that goodnight.
After all the pain—the deep cracks in your fingers and
You’d just smile and say “that’s what radiation does”—
The price you pay to fight to be alive.
The Chemotherapy that made you sick for days
And that time you got pneumonia;
When I had to wear a face mask just to be in the same room
And your son was convinced you weren’t going to make it.
But I sat at that table covered in a golden cloth,
Gravy remnants on the place mats,
And you had only left our house 20 minutes ago.
But here they were,
Wishing you to rage against the dying of the light.
How dare they.
You have suffered enough and if you want to leave
Please go.
The sun is setting,  
And it’s wrong to beg you to stay.

"Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, darueber muss man schweigen."

Young, we understand
the world, but not ourselves.
Old, we understand
ourselves, but not the world.
Between falls the mysterious
and baffling substance
of our lives. Confusion
marks any real life
of consciousness.
Certainty is the lie
we believe in to smooth
the transition. Death
is the period that punctuates
the end of our sentence,
when we finally know
what we really know
in silence.