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Dreading is pointless once a glorious light slithers our sight.
Vanishing years of yearning, a pure heart laden with optimism.
Gleaming soul with a bright angel at the crown of his right. 
Fading vivid hearts, As we clean tears in mysticism.
 
Mumble concerns in the head as going off to slumber. 
The time for effort is passed; we'll not live in eternity.
We will meet up with the truth of our ultimate cumber.
Predicting a possible outcome of the eulogy.

Faint tones of sorrow inspire the shapes on display.
Uttered to hush once we are given an abode transition.
Gold domes and flushes of magical bliss are to mollify. 
The cold rise of the soul is apace, natural, and not an illusion.


Written: June 18, 2021

A Brian Strand July 10 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand

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