I consider the gateway of my death.
It is always before me, sometimes hidden by distractions.
There are periods I see it more clearly.
As of late the details of its appearance become more defined,
And the door opens widely and freely.
When will I pass through?
I, as with other beings, do not know this for certain.
Each moment brings me closer.
Let me prepare now.
I can almost feel the latch swing under my hand
And hear the rustle of the gravel as my foot starts over the stile.
Now is a good time to reflect upon deities
And who we will decide to worship, and why?
We all have idols, numerous ones,
Acknowledged or not,
So it behooves us to choose wisely.
I would suggest liminal beings,
For we are on the threshold in many ways,
Looking backwards and stepping forward.
We need divinities that speak to transition,
Enable us to handle change and be not afraid,
And move from warring with each other to peace,
Gods and goddesses that do not compete for supremacy,
Nor encourage us to do so,
But instead work for the betterment of all existence
And inspire us to do likewise.
I know who I think upon: to whom do you pray?
Early morning, a liminal time,
When the tenebrific skies seem poised
On some obscure threshold.
The air is quiet;
No birds yet sing to herald the day;
No wind or rain disturbs the transitory stillness.
The moment awaits any assignation of meaning.
For a brief few breaths,
The world is simply as it is.