At death, stops a choking anguish,
paying for a life lived and not all
the wrongs I’ve done. Will my own
soul go into exile? On the other side
of the vast distance between those
on Earth and myself. Stepping over
decaying petals, will I go somewhere
else? Someone tell that I am, isn’t
God just another cop, willing to pull
the trigger back, when I don’t go
pop? Step no nearer to me. There’s
a storm coming. Plots and schemes.
In constant circles, around me.
They smile at me and frown behind me.
Secrets in plain sight, until I see them
and secrets no-more.