Some decisions weren’t meant to be made.

The cessation of treatment for cancer
looms before me like a silent
waterfall of black water.

The writhing pain
of continuing
on this path is equally unthinkable.

I stand at the turning point,
seeking signs,
tapping into prayer,
staring at the sky.

Some decisions weren’t meant to be made.

How can I continue? How can I not continue?

The trumpets at the end of a great battle
lift into the air,
the scores of dead bodies
surrounding them
are wrapped in silent prayer.

I can almost hear those trumpets,
as I lumber across the battlefield
on my horse.

Out of the corner of my eye
I see a formless figure,
crying out among the slain.

It is made of a dimming light,
it’s limbs are sounds of great color.

It is my own spirit.

It is my own spirit.

Crying out: “No more.”