Would this crumbling sort of grey fall away to expose the tattered chosen? Dead fingers grasp at the last space of air left behind in flight to take hold of something that will all-too-soon grow cold. This grave in stride, where one must end up when they’ve died and there is no second stop beyond. Still one longs to hold this strange memory, giving the illusion and questioning a certain conspiracy of where the road must end. One pretends in fact, that this person has not gone along and instead remains strong, an entity to benefit the rest of those left behind.
We create Heaven.
A holding tank or golden pastures to pleasure and entreat those who met certain demise. Fly in friendly skies on pretty wings all white and pristine; an idyllic scene to bring more to this deceived population. This congregation with scales in their eyes cannot realize that there is only a finite level of life left in these human batteries. The soul encased in flesh is best when still fresh and not left long to pull loose of moorings tossed aside.
We die without expectation.
Photo credit: lkc from morguefile.com