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Eulogy

They buried me
In a box of oak wood,
In a soft plot of land.
Now, the green grass grows
On the surface
Over the space
Where my body lies.
I guess my muscles and skin
Deteriorate in the fertile soil,
Rotting away in the rain
As it erodes the landscape above,
As other peoples' footprints
Sink on top of the spot
Where I am buried.
The weather continues
While I do not,
But someone once told me
That I will live forever
As long as I cared for others,
Or as long as they cared for
Me.
Maybe that's what heaven is.
Maybe
That's
What
Heaven
Is.

I don't know.
I'm not sure where my soul is.
It could be taking a break
Or it might've found a new job
Or something.
Whatever. It's not here:
With me.
I'm just laying down,
A carcass in a casket,
So perhaps it got bored
From waiting around,
Anticipating that I'd get up
And take a few more steps
Forward—in any direction.
But I don't
I'm stiff and I'm starting to smell,
My whole body is tight and clenched,
Yet somehow saggy and bruised
Like a three week old nectarine.
My skin winkles from decay.
I don't worry about it.
I can't.
There's nothing I can do.
I'm in God's hands now.
Faith will carry me.
Maybe that's what heaven is.
Maybe
That's
What
Heaven
Is.

My neighbors don't say much,
So I often wonder
What they're thinking.
I can't see them,
Or anything at all, really,
But I know they're there.
Do they hear me screaming
So softly into the white linen padding
Of my pillows and sheets?
Are they curious too
Or are the busy
Hiding away in the dirty Earth
That surrounds us all?
I would hold my hands out to hug you,
Though I've never met you,
If only to say hello, neighbor.
We could discuss our similar experiences,
But we're too far estranged and divided
By something—
Isolated in the muddy walls
As they close in.
There's someone above,
Dropping flowers—
They're dead too, aren't they? —
And telling me to rest in peace.
Maybe that's what heaven is.
Maybe
That's
What
He aven
Is.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
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