One Last Chance

It was my dying day, 
had one more chance to pray.
Said goodbye to the family, tired of the agony.

It was now my time to talk with my Maker.
He had sent the death angel--the Soul Taker.

I was tired of what had become of my life.
Bad news cut frequently like a knife.

Chest pain, head insane, money strain.
Had fought for so long against much wrong.

Walked with a strut, kicked butt.
but then one day I was in a rut.

Couldn't break the cycle that I had called, "Passion."
Engulfed in what I would call, "My Fashion."

Like a designer, I had created a new me.
Wore personalities that the world could see.

Didn't know half the time who was I?
Didn't know sometimes why I would sigh.

Had everything that most prayed for,
but then living my life had become a bore.

Found myself looking up at the ceiling,
this time there was no healing.

Heard the voice who said, "Go back."
I didn't want to go to a life of spiritual lack.

Cried all the way down that gold escalator,
welcomed back to a breathing respirator.

I had one last chance, I took a glance.
Saw faces awaiting for me to moan,
but my voice had lost its tone.

Pleaded with my Maker to take me back.
That's when the screen flat-lined, went black.

Nicholl McGuire