the bell will sound, the body will
be at rest, the last memory will be, i was once awake. over symbolic ice,
mountain, and grave, the tablets, the chisel marks, and souls afar. the darkest
hour, hope is sweet, it seems the final disconnect might be too sudden to
register. be it utter pain, sheer bliss, or so swift, it becomes indifference,
in a blink, and awakened. again to acacia paths, the passage in soil, the
greenery is fraught by aging properties; we’re told the soul doesn’t die,
albeit, it suffers from dissention. to sense it floats, waiting for its
sentience, at the gates for its body. the plan is askew, right in place, or
haphazard—and the bell will sound like the knell, a spirit will come for its
nature, a man will pass over the tents with a marking. in that space, dear as
not present, something hectic must disconnect; so smooth, or violent, so
indebted to its life; abashed by spirit, humility is saddening, polite
acceptance seems suitable. or, most tragic, insufferable, Christlike
affliction; to have danced a period in time, a late comer to consciousness,
where it reflects on itself; in moments descending, falling into the murky
void, or soon benighted by the vacuum of persistence. so much closer to the
final adventure, where it becomes expected, and one wonders why it tarries,
parlays, and waits, like a soul with purpose. the last pair of socks, the last
boots, knowing it comes.
