I am here and I am not here — what better way to describe this early-morning walk through the fog, accompanied by what seems, and what might very well be, my almost tangible presence after death? The sublime vagueness of it, the feeling that, if it is necessary, it must be in unfathomable ways, the dawning of innocence with the coming of age. I will not tarry. Life is the prayer. Love is the way.
November 18, 2019
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Aging, Death, Diaries, Journals, Love, Poems, Poetry, Walking
William Michaelian 