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Poem



They told me it was clouds,
a parable in the sky,
but the boy dreamed in gold,
and came back with eyes that saw beyond dying.

“I saw a throne, and Him that sat on it…” (Revelation 4:2)
"My Father’s house has many rooms," (John 14:2)
he said, and I imagined doors swinging wide—
not mansions, but places where sorrows cannot live.

I watched the trees throw shadows on a tombstone,
but the trumpet hadn’t sounded yet.
"He will wipe every tear from their eyes." (Revelation 21:4)
So I kept mine—
salted proof that we still hope.

Under fluorescence and morning coffee breath,
I tried explaining eternity
in spreadsheets and Wednesday prayer meetings.
"Today you will be with me in paradise," (Luke 23:43)
he said to the thief, and maybe also
to the doubters, and those who scribble poems
instead of believing outright.

Not a cloud, but a city—
its gates unlatched by grace,
its streets humming with footsteps
of those who never feared the dark.
"The glory of God gives it light," (Revelation 21:23)
not neon, not sun,
but something like the hush before dawn,
something like the breath held
before a newborn name is spoken—
before eternity receives us.

In the margins of the apocalypse,
an angel whispers,
“Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord.” (Revelation 14:13)
And perhaps, blessed too,
are those who still believe
when belief is not convenient—
when faith wears a hospital band,
or sits beside an empty crib.

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