A poem by V.B. Price
For those of us who, unlike the God of Medicine, do not see death as a failure but an open door.
Perfect
comforter, clean
doctor
calling our dreams
to heal us,
our unchained
trust
to end our pain,
immortality
was your one
transgression:
Not your own vice,
but the sin
of arrogance
in the service
of compassion:
Zeus
crushed you
for it.
Death,
the only escape
— to deny it
out of virtue
is to invite
misfirings,
slipups, mishandlings
that even the Gods can’t
untangle.
Death is their treasure for us,
their sure and simple
sublime-minded cure.
Wonderful and powerful. Thanks V
As is so often the case, V.B., you say the unsayable… that which needs to be said. For that I am eternally grateful…
Barrett,
I especially appreciate this poem as it applies to me and mine and hope that it doesn’t mean that either you or I or Rini or Kathy are looking at that relief in the very near future. But when we do, I want to have death with dignity, and hope we can avail ourselves of Oregon-like relief if we wish.
That is beautiful, V.B. My best, Martha
Beautiful piece…and at the center of our hold on the universe.
Thanks for this, Barrett. Death as a “treasure”? Yes, it can be. Had news today of my eldest cousin, 88, moved from “assisted living” to a hospital to deal with an episode of extreme paranoia which it is hoped medication will allay. At some level, I suspect that he knows that treasure is waiting . . . I hope so, anyway.