The Twilight Between Worlds (An Ode to the Body’s Last Secret)

O quiet vessel, once thunderous with breath,

Now stilled beneath the velvet hush of eternity.

The pulse that sang of triumphs and tears has faded,

Yet something, unseen, unsurrendered, stirs

In the cathedral of your stillness.

Death, it seems, is only the body’s bow,

Not the soul’s final curtain.

Life does not end, it unravels,

Gently, reverently, like a scroll in God’s hands.

Each cell releases its hymn, each nerve its memory,

As the spirit, shy as dawn 

Rises from the ruins of the flesh.

The brain, that palace of thought, falls quiet;

Its stars dim one by one,

But beyond the darkened dome,

A greater light begins to burn.

The heart yields its throne of rhythm,

The faithful organ of mortal love 

Yet love itself, untethered, ascends.

The organs rest, the muscles slacken,

The breath departs…

And still, within the soft rebellion of the cells,

Life whispers to itself: “Not yet.”

Scientists call this the twilight of death,

But the soul calls it crossing.

Between pulse and peace, there is a bridge of wonder,

A tender trembling where the eternal wakes.

Even as the cornea glimmers its last reflection,

The spirit beholds its first horizon.

White blood cells hold their post a while longer,

As if protecting the departing traveler

Until heaven takes the shift.

Oh mystery of divine design 

That even decay can be holy.

That the body, in all its frailty,

Should cradle eternity’s secret in its marrow.

Each dying gene sings its last psalm,

And the spirit, luminous, unshaken.

Hears the echo and answers: “I am.”

O beloved dust,

You were never meant to vanish,

But to change your shape in the hands of God.

What the grave calls ending,

He calls awakening, transitioning.

For the Creator wastes nothing 

Not the breath, not the heartbeat,

Not even the silence that follows.

Alas, as the flesh dissolves into the hush of time,

The soul steps forward, barefoot in light,

Leaving behind its brief and broken shell 

A letter of love addressed to the earth.

The wind reads it. The stars remember.

In that twilight between worlds,

Where death pauses to listen,

Heaven opens its arms

And whispers back the body’s final plea:

“Not yet? Then come.”

And in that sacred moment 

When surrender becomes ascension,

And silence becomes song 

The soul, at last,

Goes home.