wheel-wrights within wheel-wrights; gusts under the temporal strains

storming goals like carbine ashen medicine
a break apart from the wasted and hands-folded corsetière
misplaced Toarcian in summer paces
never meant to destroy our backs against the wind
but docile enough to plead guilt to an unexpected afterlife

antiquity miles from venture settlements
there was doorstop company on the primitive grass
I never had one single conversation with God
on what to expect in the existence yet to be
all were assumptions on that one segment of bright cascades

it is easy to know what God wants today
while we are alive we know, but if there is an everlasting soul
we should be in tune with a sense of expectedness
we should have an equal amount of wisdom literature on the afterlife
it is unwritten so far, at least from Abrahamic traditions

this bone of contrite derision shows we need distance
distance in time, distance in literature, away from Abrahamic constructs
my unwritten, unspoken, unknown God has kept the nature of afterlife from me
there is no spark in my imagination that can converse of this theme
“you can ask,” God tells me, but where do I start after all this time

“You can ask”

“It is a place a healing”
Are we conscious? “Yes, you are”
“This is not the type of thing you should be sharing,
I am no longer your unwritten, unspoken, unknown God”
“You will be grieving all the days of your life.
The end will not come as soon as you’d life.”
“If there is a faster way to get here, you can’t take it.”
I am weak and exhausted. “And so you will be.”
windstorms under the heat
body and mind breaking flat
“It hasn’t arrived yet.”