As I wrote yesterday, sometimes heaven scares me.
Here was an attempt to process my thoughts while in college:
Gala at Death
Consequently, my poems all died—even those unwritten—
when I realized that Revelation promises the annihilation of my pages,
that I will not be archived in Heaven’s library,
my words jacketed in celestial gold.
So now the hollow worth of writing’s result faults me
for delighting in my bookcase of sale-annex idols,
bothered by heavenly boredom—
nothing to read but the Bible for a slow eternity.
The apocalyptic book humbled my hands, but bowing, I knew
I’d wear white to the funeral. There all poems everywhere
then died to me—how easily paper curls and burns.
But literature’s epitaph reads, The Author of Life Wins,
and that graveyard is where writers worship God.