Freshly fallen from the mountain, Jedidiah in the thick garden moonlight
cautions us that death is an illusion.
Some ease their dark debt with blindness but Jedidiah steps forward, intact:
I rotted in the rock for a long lake of years
before I inhaled the uninvited roses again.
Between sky and dust, death is the only fiction.
I looked suffering in the face, saw its cruel intention
seized the history of ages by its forearm
for a strong pulse. My choice was the stout branch
and the knots I twist with my ropy hands
but that door closed on me. I am more alive now
than when my life was an egg in the womb of the world.
Oblivion took pity on me, freed my shackled breath
and declared my destiny. I am a tool of God
and his legions of descendants who spread like spilled wine
from this garden. They need my blood to rinse their absolution.
It is death that imagines a world of empty graves.
I am but the reflection in your still pool
and my desire deserts me.
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