i have no more room for these testaments.
their biblical proportions
swell
and strain the seams of my naïveté.

your afterlife glides past
with wings of melting wax
attempting to tempt me with tales
of a hellish heaven
and a heavenly hell

but i prefer a Floydian philosophy
for all i touch
and all i see.



death's crooked fingers reach us all in time



yet had i the faculty
fresh from the womb
i would have feared my birth
over any eventual demise.