When You Die
By Luke
It’s not what you expect.
There’s life and living and dying
and then there’s just death.
Your vision goes dark.
Some would be afraid, not you.
You are calm. You are peaceful.
You are dead.
No, not dead, not alive.
You just are.
Your vision clears and you see a mountain,
a colossal mount, scraping the heavens.
No purgatory, no demons, no fire, no judgment,
no ghosts, or ghouls, or graves, or gods.
Just you and the mountain.
You notice at the top, just barely,
something of significance,
too hazy for details,
but you know it’s important.
You notice, suddenly,
how desolate the mount is.
No, not completely, just barren of flora.
But there are people. People everywhere,
strewn about the mountain.
The mountain stretches before you,
too large to fit in itself.
The bumps and cracks and crevices
and saddles and valleys and hills
take more space
than the mountain can physically hold.
And then you see people standing beside you,
staring at the mountain too.
Just staring at it in a trance.
You can’t discern their faces in the light;
the light, you notice, isn't really there.
There’s no dark either. It’s eternal twilight,
as if the sun’s setting on all sides.
The sky’s on fire, producing no light,
a deep, blood red shadowed in dusk.
People begin to walk forward,
not all, but some.
You notice the ever-growing multitude
climbing up the mountain
and the countless too stunned to move.
You step forward, knowing
behind you lies the same mount,
and in front of you is the goal.
You trudge forward,
one eye on the mountain,
one eye on the ground,
one eye on the other journeyers.
Some, you see, look only at the goal
and they stumble and trip and fall,
choosing difficult paths,
never reaching the goal.
Some, you see, look only at their feet
and the ground underneath,
too focused on placing one foot
in front of the other;
so they miss the goal,
wandering onto forbidden paths.
You shout, but they can’t hear.
They are already lost.
You become aware of a distant noise,
a faint sound, the source unknown,
the nature uncertain.
You strain your ears
to hear as you hike
and you realize it’s thunder.
Constant, unceasing, and distant thunder.
You walk, surely, truly.
As you walk, with every step,
your strength fades away.
You pause; you’re breathing heavier.
Stopping and resting does not revivify.
You continue, becoming more and more tired
with each and every stride
and it feels as if you've walked
for days on that empty slope.
You see some souls
standing, sitting, sprawling,
too tired to continue,
waiting to turn to the dust of the Earth.
Some have stopped and are turned around
looking at the ground they've trekked.
You glance behind and halt.
You have moved only a foot.
You look at the goal in the distance,
impossibly far away
and the people plodding along.
No, there is no stopping,
not for all the tricks of the mountain,
or for all the tricks of the mind.
You must press forward, enduring,
or wait and fade away.
You ascend, slowly, steadily,
with growing lassitude in each step.
The goal is closer, you can see details.
Not enough to know what it is,
but you know it’s what you want.
You hear rumors from passersby in pairs,
allies of opportunity,
speaking in low tones
about the nature of the goal.
They call it different names,
Paradise, Nirvana, the Elysian Fields;
but they describe it all the same:
sanctuary, comfort, peace, joy, euphony,
love, bliss, mercy, rest.
You walk on, unable to speak;
you’re constantly out of breath.
As your elevation grows,
the conversation slows,
till silence replaces their voices.
And louder the thunder becomes;
no longer a dull roar,
but a deafening bellow.
Some collapse from the strain
prostrated on the mount.
They rise no more.
Some fall and slide down,
lying as if they’re dead,
too tired to try again.
You move slower, your feet like lead.
Your head is heavy, your arms are weighted.
You shuffle your way upward.
Your chest is heaving; your eyes can’t focus.
Your mouth is gaping and your legs are failing.
You fall to one knee and struggle to stand.
You rise to take a step, then fall.
You’re on your chest,
completely prone against the mount.
You must continue forward;
you drag yourself along.
A mist arises, you are befuddled.
So you crawl, following the slope,
never knowing how far you must climb.
You cut your hands, scrape your knees,
struggling on the rocky slope.
Then, there is no more slope.
You have reached the top.
You have ascended the mount.
The goal, absent. The peak, void.
You are alone, you are exhausted,
you are disappointed, you are afraid.
You force yourself to your feet,
swoon, and almost collapse.
The thunder has ceased.
The mist is silent, oppressive.
You are utterly lost.
A ladder swiftly descends from the sky,
groaning and roaring like thunder,
slamming into the dirt before you,
stretching into the mist above you.
Your vision grows dim; your heartbeat’s faint,
you think distantly how will you climb
when you scarcely have the strength
to hold yourself upright?
You struggle to lift your hand
to place it on a rung,
knowing it will be your last action
before you faint from exhaustion
and are doomed to rise no more.
Your fingers encircle it
grasp it firmly with failing strength.
An electric shock courses through you.
Vitality is restored to your limbs;
you endeavor to climb before it fades.
You lift yourself, rung after rung
as the ground fades to obscurity.
And with each inch you climb,
your renewed vigor fades away,
sucked into the mist and silence.
Your eyes pierce the vapor overhead.
It is darkening;
an object is approaching.
Above you is an opening
into which the ladder runs.
You reach and grab the rim,
slowly, lethargically heave yourself
up into the opening.
You collapse, safely inside,
roll onto your back, panting.
Your eyes are closed, conserving strength,
the lids too heavy to open.
Your breathing slows,
your mind clears.
You have reached your goal,
and it is everything they described:
Comfort, Peace, Sanctuary, Joy, Euphony,
Love, Bliss, Mercy, Rest.
And you are content to lie on the floor,
forever.
But someone picks you up,
carrying you gently in their arms,
and like a sleeping child,
lays you on a feather bed.
You feel a loving hand
run tenderly through your hair,
the hand of someone who cares,
who understands
your trail, your suffering, your pain.
And a gentle voice soothes you,
a soft-spoken whisper
filled with affection, warmth,
telling you, through tears
of relief and joy,
“I’ve been expecting you.”
There’s life and living and dying
and then there’s just death.
Your vision goes dark.
Some would be afraid, not you.
You are calm. You are peaceful.
You are dead.
No, not dead, not alive.
You just are.
Your vision clears and you see a mountain,
a colossal mount, scraping the heavens.
No purgatory, no demons, no fire, no judgment,
no ghosts, or ghouls, or graves, or gods.
Just you and the mountain.
You notice at the top, just barely,
something of significance,
too hazy for details,
but you know it’s important.
You notice, suddenly,
how desolate the mount is.
No, not completely, just barren of flora.
But there are people. People everywhere,
strewn about the mountain.
The mountain stretches before you,
too large to fit in itself.
The bumps and cracks and crevices
and saddles and valleys and hills
take more space
than the mountain can physically hold.
And then you see people standing beside you,
staring at the mountain too.
Just staring at it in a trance.
You can’t discern their faces in the light;
the light, you notice, isn't really there.
There’s no dark either. It’s eternal twilight,
as if the sun’s setting on all sides.
The sky’s on fire, producing no light,
a deep, blood red shadowed in dusk.
People begin to walk forward,
not all, but some.
You notice the ever-growing multitude
climbing up the mountain
and the countless too stunned to move.
You step forward, knowing
behind you lies the same mount,
and in front of you is the goal.
You trudge forward,
one eye on the mountain,
one eye on the ground,
one eye on the other journeyers.
Some, you see, look only at the goal
and they stumble and trip and fall,
choosing difficult paths,
never reaching the goal.
Some, you see, look only at their feet
and the ground underneath,
too focused on placing one foot
in front of the other;
so they miss the goal,
wandering onto forbidden paths.
You shout, but they can’t hear.
They are already lost.
You become aware of a distant noise,
a faint sound, the source unknown,
the nature uncertain.
You strain your ears
to hear as you hike
and you realize it’s thunder.
Constant, unceasing, and distant thunder.
You walk, surely, truly.
As you walk, with every step,
your strength fades away.
You pause; you’re breathing heavier.
Stopping and resting does not revivify.
You continue, becoming more and more tired
with each and every stride
and it feels as if you've walked
for days on that empty slope.
You see some souls
standing, sitting, sprawling,
too tired to continue,
waiting to turn to the dust of the Earth.
Some have stopped and are turned around
looking at the ground they've trekked.
You glance behind and halt.
You have moved only a foot.
You look at the goal in the distance,
impossibly far away
and the people plodding along.
No, there is no stopping,
not for all the tricks of the mountain,
or for all the tricks of the mind.
You must press forward, enduring,
or wait and fade away.
You ascend, slowly, steadily,
with growing lassitude in each step.
The goal is closer, you can see details.
Not enough to know what it is,
but you know it’s what you want.
You hear rumors from passersby in pairs,
allies of opportunity,
speaking in low tones
about the nature of the goal.
They call it different names,
Paradise, Nirvana, the Elysian Fields;
but they describe it all the same:
sanctuary, comfort, peace, joy, euphony,
love, bliss, mercy, rest.
You walk on, unable to speak;
you’re constantly out of breath.
As your elevation grows,
the conversation slows,
till silence replaces their voices.
And louder the thunder becomes;
no longer a dull roar,
but a deafening bellow.
Some collapse from the strain
prostrated on the mount.
They rise no more.
Some fall and slide down,
lying as if they’re dead,
too tired to try again.
You move slower, your feet like lead.
Your head is heavy, your arms are weighted.
You shuffle your way upward.
Your chest is heaving; your eyes can’t focus.
Your mouth is gaping and your legs are failing.
You fall to one knee and struggle to stand.
You rise to take a step, then fall.
You’re on your chest,
completely prone against the mount.
You must continue forward;
you drag yourself along.
A mist arises, you are befuddled.
So you crawl, following the slope,
never knowing how far you must climb.
You cut your hands, scrape your knees,
struggling on the rocky slope.
Then, there is no more slope.
You have reached the top.
You have ascended the mount.
The goal, absent. The peak, void.
You are alone, you are exhausted,
you are disappointed, you are afraid.
You force yourself to your feet,
swoon, and almost collapse.
The thunder has ceased.
The mist is silent, oppressive.
You are utterly lost.
A ladder swiftly descends from the sky,
groaning and roaring like thunder,
slamming into the dirt before you,
stretching into the mist above you.
Your vision grows dim; your heartbeat’s faint,
you think distantly how will you climb
when you scarcely have the strength
to hold yourself upright?
You struggle to lift your hand
to place it on a rung,
knowing it will be your last action
before you faint from exhaustion
and are doomed to rise no more.
Your fingers encircle it
grasp it firmly with failing strength.
An electric shock courses through you.
Vitality is restored to your limbs;
you endeavor to climb before it fades.
You lift yourself, rung after rung
as the ground fades to obscurity.
And with each inch you climb,
your renewed vigor fades away,
sucked into the mist and silence.
Your eyes pierce the vapor overhead.
It is darkening;
an object is approaching.
Above you is an opening
into which the ladder runs.
You reach and grab the rim,
slowly, lethargically heave yourself
up into the opening.
You collapse, safely inside,
roll onto your back, panting.
Your eyes are closed, conserving strength,
the lids too heavy to open.
Your breathing slows,
your mind clears.
You have reached your goal,
and it is everything they described:
Comfort, Peace, Sanctuary, Joy, Euphony,
Love, Bliss, Mercy, Rest.
And you are content to lie on the floor,
forever.
But someone picks you up,
carrying you gently in their arms,
and like a sleeping child,
lays you on a feather bed.
You feel a loving hand
run tenderly through your hair,
the hand of someone who cares,
who understands
your trail, your suffering, your pain.
And a gentle voice soothes you,
a soft-spoken whisper
filled with affection, warmth,
telling you, through tears
of relief and joy,
“I’ve been expecting you.”
This poem was created for a poetry contest. It placed in the top five. When I talked to the person in charge, she said that after it was read, it awed the entire class into silence.
12/3/13