They come, the dead,
in a ghostly thread,
the sinners, the shriven, the unforgiven,
the king and his page
and the fool in his rage;
the mighty, the humble,
with swagger or stumble;
the mage, the magician,
plebeian, patrician,
my lord politician,
the fraud, the physician,
resentful, repentant,
the senseless, relentless;
they come and they wait
at the gossamer gate.
They come, the dead,
from their ghastly bed,
the guilty, the innocent,
lost in an instant;
the maiden, the harlot,
director and starlet,
the dressed-all-in-scarlet,
the pimp and the whore,
the solicitor for
the above and much more;
the footloose, the farmer,
the gentleman charmer,
the scullery-maid and the knight in his armour;
they all come here to wait
at the gossamer gate.
They come, the dead,
the easily-led,
and those who have led them
and loved them and bled them;
the sweetly reclusive and gently intrusive,
the shy and the vain
and the grandly effusive;
the children, the children,
and they who have killed them,
the old, the infirm
and the hobble-on-crutches,
the beggar, the baron,
the druggy, the duchess.
All these come to wait
at the gossamer gate.
They come, the dead,
with a shuffling tread,
the saintly, the thieves,
who have fallen like leaves,
in their loving and hoping
and fearfully groping
for a word to be spoken,
a promise unbroken,
for vengeance, for righting
a wrong, or for lighting
a life that is breaking
with grief and with aching;
there's joy for the taking,
amends to be making
for all those who wait
at the gossamer gate.
They sigh, the dead,
as the shackles are shed
and the barriers fall
that will free them all
for whatever may call
in the world of the living
the taking, the giving,
as the fabric is torn
and as one, reborn,
they surge to their fate,
through the gossamer gate.
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