no primary language of the afterlife

no language, no design, no tension – no countering weight
no book that can tell the truth of our misgivings in the wild of the trailer park
birthing us into a void like a fishnet apprehension that speaks to God
regionality forced upon us where corn and dew settle on the angelic front
no words that can compel the broken down leniency agasp like clockwork dismissal
a God that fits a letterbox saw through my trial and coined me uncertainty
in a place where no messiah sees Earth as a wedding vow
but does see us under the measures of our trace cognition
attempting to lift our immobile spirits in the least grateful of times

a hegemony strikes the world while our least efforts condole a reception of spirits
triggers and ashtrays and bespoken pirated lands of corporate cleaning rooms
resting on Brean admonished hands for marked entry and storied stellar concerns
a statehouse upon graves mark the territory of forbidden movements
forbidden motives corral the scapegoat reception after the dampened weddings
poets try to entrap God into acting with hymns of toss-decorated words
and bylines of misplaced chords while all adults were in attendance,
a romance of weddings with built fearful architecture for the enemies of good
in an act so desperate they merely almost got their way, parsing aside a reconciliation