DYING TO LIVE: A PROSE POEM
If this were a glimpse at dying and how the mind, fragile
as it is, could pull one back to life, I would work at it, break free from
cages that have held me captive, look at the burning sun long and hard until I
am wedded to its brilliance and finally unified. This is the vessel that I
offer you to have and to hold, but I must fill it with the salving grace that
will mold my injured spirit back to what I carefully surrendered for you to
mend and nurture when it had foundered, lost at some hostile sea, a boat shorn
of sail, unanchored. Like Pygmalion, I
will chisel every jagged chip, remold every broken edge, to remake this cup and
will unfold before your eyes like an earthen jar spun out of my hand, pared
clean at its brim, to collect a wellspring of fluid nectar to last us a
lifetime of all that is sweet and kind.
---Albert
B. Casuga
Mississauga, October 27, 2014
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