my childhood pastor stands behind the podium, above the pulpit.
he is pointing outwards, frozen in some caricature of godly passion.
below him, at the center of the pulpit, is my casket.
i am peaceful as i haven't been for years. i do not move.

through the windows on the doors seperating the lobby from the house
the rays of sunset climb up the pews and lap at the pulpit.
neither pastor nor i move until the sun has fully set.
neither pastor nor i move after the sun has fully set.

the pews are empty and uninviting; there is no one to be saved today.
the air crackles silently with promises i will never wake to know.
i will soon wake up from the dream of my funeral, as i always do.
i wonder if i will regret conscious lucidity once more when i wake.