The Churchbell At The Last Seconds

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.