I breathe in darkness,
I breathe out light.
I step toward destruction,
come now toward me.
I have been waiting,
patiently to die.
To then be reborn,
as the vision in my eye.
The Gentle Man does not fear death, but knows it as a necessary, and beautiful, part of life. All of life is dying.
All but spirit, who resides in the bartizans of eternity, is a momentary flicker, destined to puff out and fade back to nothing.
The Gentle Man watches as the sun is born each day and then dies.
He watches again as the moon does the same of its monthly cycle – gently waxing and waning with his woman.
He watches once more as the apple falls from the tree, thuds at the earth below and slowly rots – encasing the seed, now sunk into the earth, with the nutrients necessary for new life.
With the sun, the moon, and the apple, the Gentle Man dies.
He knows no fear. For fear is a liar. Fear is a thief. Fear knows nothing.
And through each death, the Gentle Man experiences more and more of life.
Gracefully, and consciously he walks through each of his lives, this and the next.
Eyes on beauty.
Sweet, obliging death.