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Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Poem: The Bath by John Predmore, S.J.

As water flows,
all else slows.
Steam and bubbles rise
as I immerse my weariness.
Movements quell
as I slip away
forever still
in this coffin.
Arms folded on chest,
Submerged for eternal rest,
and I drift away.
Deep, penetrating unconsciousness,
thinking only of what was
and I sleep
with stopped breath,
hearing the deaf inner rhythm,
pulse less,
the faintest of heartbeat slowed

Then I rise,
Ever afresh,
To greet the clear, crisp air.

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