When by reason of on-coming wrinkles
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and crinkled up flesh compels me to
relinquish the act of being
in the public eye, Iíll make my way
to the summit to feel the
cold influence of the Moon, and
rest under her white mantle.
My sharpened tongue will cease to
perform daily phonics and plosives
and all my has-been thoughts will drift
through the ethers and my soul will wait
to take up residence in some other plane.
Iíll resist not, the inevitable fate that
awaits this flesh, but rather spend my
last moments in calm repose,
knowing that the immortal mind
can never be enslaved by physical devices--
and in this supine moment, all is forever well!
"Until the juice ferments a while in the cask,
it isn't wine. If you wish your heart to be bright, you must do a little work." Rumi
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