The Death Mask

There's a man in the bed.

He's in bed, but he ain't dead.

He lays there helplessly, redundant.

He looks oblivious to the world.

He's in bed, but no sir, he sure ain't dead.

That old man sure ain't dead yet.

I wonder what the old man is thinking.

His suffering is loud. It should be a crime.

He lingers on, strung by the mythical puppeteer,

And I try not to shed a tear.

I'm looking at a man I knew for many years,

But now, I fail to even recognize his face

Because he is now wearing death's mask.

I guess what this most humbling time suggests

Is that we know little of the path God treads.

We just trust Him blindly to do the right thing,

And yet, it seems so cruel, you see.

We're all pawns in an eternal chess match,

A game with infinite events and possibilities,

But we must remember what God gave us,

His breath and His love so that we may survive.

Live and let live, but always remember that

We live and love one day,

And wear the death mask the next.

The preacher man comes, and he says,

"Never fear, for God is always here,"

But leaving all that behind just seems so hard

On the soul and on the psyche.

Yet, I heard the man say one time,

"This is the material world,

For the death mask is merely an opening portal

To a better place, to a better time."