Cecelia Weir

Rookie - 261 Points (March 19,1955 / Fayette, Alabama)

To Live Is To Die - Poem by Cecelia Weir

If sickness is not
A part of death.
Where does it go
After the flesh is dead.
I see it often lingering
Nearing closer to my bed.

Ultimate healing is said
To be the deliverance
Of sickness in the soul.
But life's flesh carries sickness
Even at our very best
It seems out of our control.

One final reckoning
Of a chosen life
Is to be reborn.
Why does illness
Still reside and linger?
When we wish to overcome?

Before we recieve
Our resting place
Of where the flesh is gone.
Why doesn't the soul
Save us all
From the illness life begun?

Who lives in the death?
Which death do we live?
Which life do we give?
Which death are we living?
Which death are we dead?
If only the soul shall live?

We know about death.
We know about living.
But where
Where does sickness go?
When the soul
Just keeps on living?

Death is not a choice
Life is just a maybe.
Sickness, Yes sickness
Is only a definition
For life is still
Filled with great ambition.

But if life of the soul rejuvenates
Life in the living soul.
Why has the world
Grown angry?
Why has this world
Grown so cold?

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Read poems about / on: death, life, world

Poem Submitted: Tuesday, February 8, 2005

Poem Edited: Thursday, July 28, 2005

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