When death was my shadow one Summer’s end, and the fading light of day, by its welcoming glow, mended my troubled heart, I stopped and sighed upon my walk. I sighed and drew new breath, knowing the stretching shadow there was something more than death. Death’s a silent sort of thing, distant and solitary, but a faithful companion in the last. In the last, the empty hand beckons you follow; it is no hollow gesture. Here, instead, was a patient smile, and I knew, not death, but sleep would come in Fall. Sleep’s fecund with dreams, nightmares among the rest.
When I was writing this last night, I started to fall asleep. Here’s a glimpse into my unconscious from the leading edge of my conscious mind:
When death was my shadow one summer’s end, and the fading light, by welcome glow, my troubled heart did mend, I stopped and sighed upon my walk, I sighed and drew new breath, and knew the stretching shadow there was something more than death. Death’s a silent sort of thing, and I know he’ll follow, but solitary medium, a gentle hand not hollow.
Okay, I think I’m falling asleep.
Tale Told 