The Last Time I Died

The fear of death doesn't catch my throat.
I have lived over lives without number.
Death seems as familiar
as the embrace of an old friend.  

To feel that icy fog in my throat,
the mist in my face.
When the snows begin, and the winds denote.
Closer now to that ever dreary place.

The darkness of the night, and press of the storm.
The post of the dead where death awaits,
the arch fear in visible form.
 
Where life and or time will go.
For the journey is over, and summit attained.
Where the barriers to life fall.

I would dislike that death blinded my sight, and forbore,
and by me creep past.
I wish to taste the whole of it, as done by my peers.
The heroes of old.

For sudden, the worst move the best.
The black minute is at end.
The elements that rage, the voices that rave,
shall dwindle, shall bend and change.

Shall become first a piece out of pain.

Then a light clutched in thy bosom.
Oh, the soul of my soul, the ancient of my heart,
I shall clasp thee again.