the clock is not a metronome
for that soul without a home,
he saw that bright white light...
no explanation for the lack of sound,
but there were lines of wait-ers bending down,
bending over touching their own toes
making a row,
a path he floated over...
no conversation as a ladder appeared
to a white ship and he was already
climbing the rungs.
on the boat there was everyone
he ever knew and loved that had passed on,
lined up looking at his face, each in their place at the table
and his father said to him,
this not your time.

and his heart started like a miracle
after forty five
minutes.

04/26/2012

Posted on 04/26/2012
Copyright © 2024 Vikki Owens