Death is a door with a silent hinge,
A shadowed arch on the edge of sight;
Not an ending, but a subtle fringe
Where dusk leans softly into light.
It opens not with crash or cry,
But like a tide that ebbs to rise—
A hush, a shift, a whispered why
That folds the earth and lifts the skies.
Behind it waits no void, no night,
But paths unwalked and breaths untried;
A lantern kindled out of sight,
A farther shore across the tide.
And so the world we know grows thin
Where time unthreads its mortal seam,
And something vast begins again
Beyond the reach of waking dream.
Death, the gateway—never the end—
Just one more place the soul may wend.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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