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Just a basic poem, nothing special.
When a man falls from the very top of the steps,
Does he climb back up to reap the civil sweat?
Does he think twice and decide that down low he'll go?
The answer can be found, a tight, simple, no.
When this poor little ragdoll slips from such great height,
He remains in place for an extensive night.
In limbo, he floats, unaware of his oncoming demise.
The man cannot help but look on with wide eyes.
A white light fills every chasm of his sensory perception,
All thoughts vanish from the man and neglect him.
He dies.
The man is dead.
A valiant swarm of carriers sweep his remains from this street.
Taken to be judged for the purity of his meat.
Has this man been keen to hold his word?
Or has his past held something, on the other end, absurd?
Either choice leads him to either place.
In either place, he is met by either face.
About God and His opposition this trifle is not,
A choice to be made, it's the last one he's Gott.
Eyes wide shut with a hammer and knell.
A coffin filled with white, and stories to tell.
Oblivious to the world, and cold to the core,
To up or to low? For this man is no more.
His deeds are as follows, and to the word they will be,
or will have been, as we only may later see.
At a young age, he killed a girl.
It was an accident. An honest, accident.
At a middle age, he killed a boy.
From that corpse grew a man, tall as can be.
At an old age, he killed a man,
And that man was me.
But that man is no more, and now we can see,
I am that man; that man was me.
That man is me, and I was all three.
Yet two are all seen, though not all alone,
For company overwatches constantly,
I'll present this, out loud:
He who takes the ashes, lights the fire.
Be it in thy Father's name, in times like this, so dire,
Yet let it show that what once shone so brightly is now so dim,
And let us not forget, Him.
We thank you for this precious food,
Upon which we may feast.
We thank you for this guiding light,
To dissuade us from the Beast.
Amen.
