“Do I sense some resistance - a sense of injustice?” whispers Life folding me cold in her ample python-coil and she sings me her song
“The flowers bloom in the fields, sweet love to be gathered for your bier Time lingers in the wings to pull you off stage at the moment opportune in its Clasped Book
The worms wait patient if you choose a burial; if cremation’s your choice the fires wait in quiet potential The musicians practise to be employed by the survivors to deliver you a dirge
And so my sweet love - Live well Night night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite"
I hate it when everybody quotes me "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas, as if it were the final words...great poems too become cliches when they are quoted indiscriminately by those who rather lean on the 'wisdom' of others...