The truth is often hidden
As if it's made of gold — 
Although it can't be stolen
Neither bought nor sold
Nor stashed away in purses
Nor kept in wallet fold — 
The truth is — truth is worthless
Until the thing's been told.





Although you go you leave a trail
And those who after you remain
Will follow it and tell your tale
For generations — still your name

Will echo in unfathomed halls — 
Not only those your spirit haunts
But also there between the walls
Of rooms you visited not once

And in the cities and the towns— 
And even where you were unknown — 
The ears of strangers will resound
With stories that you thought your own.

And what those voices plainly tell
Depends upon the mark you make — 
Then listen now and listen well:
Choose carefully the path you take.

 


 
Near Death


Heart attack.
Emergency.
Hospital.
Doctors.
Nurses.
Technicians.

Cold.

I was walking on a narrow bridge.
It was only wide enough for me. 
And no one else was on it.

I looked up.
There was no sky.

I looked down.
There was no earth.

Just 
silence
darkness
emptiness
void
mist…

I was standing in the middle of the bridge.
Then I turned around and
slowly 

walked


back



home.