One of my poems...

Upon Flatlining

It is certain that I am dying.

Not the normal kind of dying

that rises up like a bright wall

in an empty room, cold and well lit.

I have done that before,

the heart stopped,

my father leaned over

said, “I love you”, like he never had,

and frantic beings in cloud white and sky blue

took his place and leaned into me

and wrestled The Universe and won.

So, I have done that but

this dying of which I speak

is the ripping from my flesh-soft palm

some numinous beauty

I have clung to like a gun

against a ravenous mob

that spits when they want to speak

and means me great harm.

This dying is slow in coming,

to be sure (I’m 42 after all),

and what is dying, what is me,

is some internal plot which

has that peculiar essence

of being pervasive, real and glorious

-deep like caves with blind animals-

and all without

even knowing that it lives there.

It is something of the fool

who is only celebrated

when suddenly, for some reason is absent,

and the wake is a deep silence, revered

and noted by all. 

                                -D.S.