What Death Becomes

Long have we all wondered what happens after death and maybe if we did know we would take comfort in the rest of our lives. Some of us have perhaps been closer to death then others and know some of the answers and yet may have even more questions than others. It’s taken me a long time to figure out the questions and list them. Yet still I wonder if we want to know the answers. Many of them I don’t wish to, but need to know if I want to live normally, which would only be possible if the answers are the wrong ones. Internal struggles can drive us insane, thank God for poetry so at least we can confuse others with our confusion!!

If only to know what death becomes
perhaps then folly would cease to feign
perhaps then wars would find repose
wars afar and wars within
and my mouldered skin could feel the rain.
If only to know what death becomes
perhaps then light would stick to day
perhaps no more would I stumble and wake,
awoken by dream and awoken by bane,
awoken by blight and fallen by vice
and the sundown shadows would start to fade.
Would you teach me to pray
and would I know if my words are right and heard?
Would you keep my desires free from malign
and let Heaven’s whispers lend me a week
so I may share in the last and refine?
If only to know what death becomes
perhaps I would not wonder over faith and fate
just accept what is too rich and too late.
Perhaps then I might find some words
and maybe just then see all through grace.

Jordan Baker
2014

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When You Lay With Me

I stand overlooking under a gaze of Heaven’s own.
Its showers are clichéd of the episodic loss of faith
drifting down just as Neptune’s cold blue kiss
through the systems like crystals on my wrist.
But when you lay with me the silks of summer
and afire breath of life slip through my compact crypt
carrying me through the underpass of lives once seen
and bear my bestirred body into this age of Holocene.

-Jordan Baker
June 2014

Blueprints by the Sea

Send Me Home

Through the cold rays I’m tired of running
though the sun shines clear through cloud.
Over valleys which on bright days are stunning
in the darkness are shaded in doubt.
Send me home into the fires
which surround my koshered crypt.
Carry me home over These Waters
until the ground parts from Evil’s grip.

Spring has come with few sights of snow
and golden daffodils are quickly budding
over valleys walked high and low.
And this varmint that I’m becoming
is going home.