Not certain what remains behind my ribs,
Untold unfathomable grace, alone,
Suffices to explain the coursing veins,
The grey of matter that, despite the grave,
The gravity of all that Sheol once knew,
Persists in sparking flashing burn of life.
The entropy means I am ash and yet
I fire and do not fade, though silent before
The throngs who do not know why they are here,
Remaining as a revelator must,
My heart is theirs, and soon the trumpet blasts.
All watch the sky, blind to the horsemen here,
The plagues are called a good despite all fear.
“Marana Tha!” they call out from the tombs.
“Maran Atha!” I cry when judgement comes.