I remember when my father died and as I sat there with him, before his passing; I wondered what he was thinking if at all. The labored breathing, the death rattle that was evident, made me really think of his life and its existence, and what was going through his mind, beforehand. The sound stopped and I knew he was gone, and I stood and said goodbye and felt his leaving, and at that moment, it was THE time for his passing to be. Sadness on my part became, not joy, but completeness of life in my discerning of his 93 years of existence. This is not a poem of HIS passing, but one of another, or of many……..

Final Trip   2015-120

The man lay melted into the bed,

His labored breathing the only sound

The full moon rays filtered in the room,

Bathing him, caressing his furrowed brow

A gnarled and spindly hand grasped the side rail,

As the other held a wooden cross to his chest

Eyes, once full of life, stared, hardly blinking,

Slowly a tear rolled down his wrinkled cheek

Then a remembrance of past times, joys fun and mirth,

Now forming a thin grimaced smile to parched lips

His wish, his desire to escape this tortured life,

To join with a wife so long gone before

A final sigh, a shudder, tenseness, then still,

No pain, worry, so suffering more

The soul, escaping the frail still shell,

That served the man so well

A last look behind and at a past time

Then gone to join others in a final life.

Den Betts