Supposing God to be exactly that
which happens anyway, however tall
you build your house, your bank account, career:
Your prose was lean and deadly, but you got fat;
the market tanked, and so you lost it all;
the water battered brick from brick in sheer
exhilaration, unfettered, free, and total—
supposing so, what difference does it make
you went to church, you prayed, you did your best?
t takes forever to become immortal.
For those who aren’t—you’ll fail and fall and break.
How does it feel to be a walking ghost,
a temporal fragment in eternity?
And why am I saying you, when I mean me?