Valhalla

Death tried to take me again today.

Saw him coming.

Exhausted, but elated.

Here is a description of the experience, written to a dear friend as soon as possible after the fact.

"I was sitting at the edge of my bed, working on (a present for Barbara),

when I started floating backwards through the bed. I was not a ghost; the furniture became insubstantial as mist.

"I grabbed hold of something, I know not what, and pulled myself back to what I now see as the dream-world of this... I was about to say corporeal place, but it's the other side that's solid.

"Belle helped; I think that dogs perhaps have a paw in each realm.

"I am so very happy to stay."

I would not deign to stop for Death,

and so he stopped for me,

gently taking all my breath,

proclaiming victory,

but his lesson's not been learned,

for he should know me better,

and he perforce was badly burned

as I torched each fetter

with which he tried to bind me to

the carriage at his station,

but he's been vanquished, done and through,

and Valhalla's destination

to which will go this man of strife,

to fight through the Eternal Life.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is ROOT. Sounds like what pigs do, but I'll have a lash.

Each day I need to root around

like a hungry pig

eating that which can be found

and getting pretty big.

But it's not food I'm snorting for,

oh, no, oh no, indeedy;

I'm on the hunt for something more,

that for which I'm greedy:

I need a reason to survive

when house of cards doth fall,

a reason just to stay alive,

a cause to give my all

when cancer's fatal hemlock cup

makes me want to just give up.

Three minutes thirty. Snort, snort.

Music from Led Zeppelin, with Immigrant Song from Thor: Ragnarok. Join me, please, in the celebration.

 Sylvia is celebrating with ice cream.