An Anxious Agnostic's Take On the Afterlife

We don’t shine like we used to, The light in our eyes Faded long ago, To the radioactive glow Building our dystopian walls, If you stand there Upon a crowded city street, You can feel The ancient shriveled roots beneath your feet Softly humming a melodic harmony of lost time And whispering ancient words that never rhyme We did not make ourselves With quivering hands and breaking thread Though we do unravel from toe to head If pulled too roughly at the seems, Though in the end What does it all mean? There’s a seamstress up in the night’s sky Sewing up your sister’s and brothers Embroidering our hearts with words Such as “heroes, cowards, and lovers” If you stand up tall enough you may be able to see Over the city walls and metal skyscrapers Made by homesick dolls If I tell you that I’m lonely, Will you say the same to me? And answer all my questions Was I made in the image of me or of thee? If I tell you that I’m trying, Will the truth ever prevail? Or will the dystopian walls flourish Where Love and Compassion fail If I say that we are a failed creation, Will you agree with me? Or will you gaze down with blind eyes? Staring lovingly There’s a motel up in the night’s sky, In the middle of nowhere and lost That’ll give you a place to stay, Even if you can’t meet the cost Though the walls are stained, And the beds creak with time There are ancient whispered words heard That never rhyme