A Transitional Sort Of Stage

Darkness meets me like a closed fist
and I find myself,
floating somewhere, Discorporeal.

In a transitional sort of stage –
my body lies, inept,
suspended on a knifes edge.

And then I realise….
“Shit I’m dead again!
That my body lying there,
over there by the ledge”.

Balancing like an acrobat
high above the heavens and stars.
Between a great life or a  Glorious death.
This is  My choice to make.

The ghostly spectre makes a appearance
as he always does.
his face wrapped in blankets,  
imposible to see like a photo
in developing fluid slowly coming in to focus.

His hand held out
his handshake tight
step this way for
eligentment and insight.

The idea is tempting as it aways is
I could succumb to temptation,
tip toe past the granite gate,
“but I got a date tomorrow night and it’s rude to be late”
Even in death i still make excuses.

The figure cracks a smile and slowly backs away.
"Im sure we will meet again" he says
“soon” but not this day.

Suddenly, a thousand helping hands
help me to my feet
This war is  not over but this battle won,
the race not over,
this human's story has just began.