Whirlwind People

Death, the inevitable party pooper is himself a real blight in coming to terms with the extremities of our life. Is the hope that singed hair on burning pyre, tore skin by pawing lion and sat in cold barred rooms alive today? The hope that sings of the other place an eternal dream that dies not here. The way we pray - our existence save, indicative of who we are, shallow, blind, a gust of wind, a whirlwind about to end.