A Poem about Afterlife

We do not measure the extent
of our lives in minutes,
(but we try.)

Fearing the moment we reach
punctuation, sentence ending,

We wish to prepare our last words,
but modify them for those by whom
They may be heard.

It is almost like we don’t know
that death is organic,
it cannot be expressed through syllables,
Yet so we often speak
because we are not comfortable
with the silence.

We dislike the idea
of an end
so we turn to thick old books
about colossal whales and parting seas
to give our curiosity remedy.

What about when we die, deteriorate,
can’t predict our fate?

Maybe, we are not here for pleasure.
Pleasure is here and we experience it,
But is it our purpose?
If so, what does pain give us to gain?

Maybe the whole point is just to die,
but I expect more from that powerful thing that
watches from the sky.

To me an energy,
to many a big bearded white guy
with wise eyes and bleeding palms,
a voice that speaks lessons to be learned,
for a purpose still unlearned,
into the ears of the religious.

I make up my own prayers,
Direct them to what I know is real.
(The spiritual energy I feel)


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