when the last trump and sackbut sound
will a wing waft me on
Elgarian elegy fast fading
as thrummed threnody far below
guardian shepherding the final furlong
to the beatific burnishing of a curtailed limbo
or will some Hades hustle in
shrouding in shade a lesser world
where wandering shadows wile wingless
through permanent plains of forever melancholia
and the murk and monochrome of nimbostratus
grey ungrowth indefinitely extended
or in the crystal clarity of cyclic rebirth
will metempsychosis have cleared the accounts
nesting a reincarnated creature
somewhere on the scale of Nirvana attainment
to restart in ignorance of former performance
kick-starting the phoenix into feeble flame
as the fog of the terminal tide filters in
I'll opt for angels
and hope for bliss.
