Revelation of Angels

On that day, when we suffer no more, it shall be glorious to behold.
The rain shall fall with a wondrous rainbow, forming a celestial shawl.
The earth will shake, and we shall stand like redwood trees, tall.
We will be reunited with our loves, who shed tears when they fell before the fall.
My mother will call my name as it was when I was in her womb, and I will hear her call.
I will embrace my grandmother as it was when I was a child in her arms.
By a peaceful river, we shall gather and sing angelically composed songs.
All the tears from the years of our weeping will be transformed into diamond waterfalls.

The light in our eyes that sorrow once stole
Shall be returned to us one thousand times fold.
We will dwell in the warmth of indescribable love and tread upon the desolate cold.
We will dwell in the warmth of indescribable love and tread upon the desolate cold.
On that day, all the beautiful mysteries of the world will be told.
Broken hearts will mend — and our fractured auras will be made whole.
On that day, the white wings we never knew we had, will begin to unfold.
On that day, the white wings we never knew we had ,will begin to unfold.

In Her Weeping

The black veil is taken away by strong winds,
exposing the depths of agony in her weeping;
there is anguish in her rising, and no rest in her sleeping.
Listen intently, and hear the sorrow of her speaking.
Before misery takes over completely,
she hides the joyous parts of her heart for safe keeping.
The weight of woe makes it hard for her to breathe;
the heaviness of it tears the soul’s fabric
and causes wailing of the deeply wounded spirit.
Unceasing torment renders her numb and listless.
In the darkness, she whispers incoherent utterances in the chair she sits.
Reality is harsh in its coldness — and it can be merciless;
Oh heaven, please turn her many tears in to diamonds,
and her piercing wails, into a joyous song.
Death has taken away from her, what she has loved for so long—
hands, adorned in black satin gloves, lovingly slide down the entire length of the casket,
where inside there is lifelessness — heavy teardrops fall on him
as she leans over, and as if in a trance — she stares at him.
She whispers something to him, before kissing him;
an utterance of secrecy that only belongs to her and him.
Six solemn faced men line up to carry him, to hollowed earth, where they will lay him.
It is there, that she comes with flowers, and weeps in her praying.
The cold fall winds blow against her face and cause her tears to fall away,
as if trying to comfort her in her mourning.
She will see him again in the light of heaven’s dawning.
He is no more, but in her heart, she carries him,
so he walks among the living — breathing, seeing, and whispering.
Even in his departing, her heart still belongs to him.
She is beautiful, as much as she is loving.
She is beautiful, as much as she is loving.

Medical Examiner’s Journal

9:36 PM, New York City.

Coldness has gripped my heart. I have become exceedingly numb to the bodies that lie before me, even the young. I have grown accustomed to the taste of metal that lingers on my tongue. In the beginning I contemplated my own mortality, but now I only contemplate an increase in my salary. I must say, the long hours have taken a toll on me; REM sleep is difficult to attain lately. The last poor soul I examined was burned badly and didn’t have any surviving family. I used to be highly religious, but recently, I have been exploring the concepts of agnosticism and atheism more and more. Life hasn’t been the same, since Sarah walked out of the door; divorce lawyers are expensive. Maybe, it was for the best that we had two failed pregnancies, as I assume this divorce process could have gotten much more ugly. I’ve come to the realization that marriage is not for me; strangely, with everything we’ve been through in court, I still love her and genuinely want her to be happy. I hope she meets a great guy and can finally start a family. We were both in medical school when we met; I thought we would be together forever, but I guess that didn’t work out, whatever. The district attorney has been on my ass about the promptness of my reports, but fuck her. She, and her office are on my fucking time; the bodies keep coming in, and are stacked high. I’m not going to perform half-assed autopsies for the sake of time; these are still human beings and deserve respect and dignity, but more importantly, accuracy. On most days, Bach’s genius gets me through the long hours. Most of my colleagues are good people, but this particular guy, Kevin, is an asshole; most of the guys named Kevin I’ve come across are pricks. I am an absolute professional in this office, and my work can stand against any independent examination. Can’t say the same for “Kev.” I guess that’s why I’m the Chief Medical Examiner — and he is not. I’m proud of myself for being disciplined enough to cut back on cigarettes. Recently, I’ve tried menthols, but they’re absolutely disgusting; vaping is completely out of the question. I haven’t had sex since Sarah left, but it is companionship that I miss the most — or maybe not. The coffee here is bullshit, so I bring in the good stuff for myself and a few others. I’ve been receiving constant calls from my mother, regarding my divorce; she wants me to work things out with Sarah. There’s nothing left to work out, so I think not. As much as I love my mother, she needs to learn to stay out of my personal affairs. I saw how she emotionally clobbered my father to a pulp. He died as the result of a massive heart attack. I’m considering signing up on one those so called “dating” sites; the word “dating” is used loosely these days. I was walking in the city and had some random woman approach me with the offer of “services.” I replied with, What services are you specifically referring to? After she answered, I politely declined. I’ll give myself sixty days to find someone on whatever dating site I decide to go with. I’m not in the business of wasting my money. I’d like to find someone at least somewhat sane; no unreasonable expectations either. Eleven years of, honey do this and honey do that, was enough for a lifetime. After a while, the constant demands became a fucking nightmare, as if I already didn’t have enough on my plate dealing with my profession. I was responsible, faithful, maintained a roof over our heads in a nice neighborhood, maintained excellent credit, engaged in intimacy with her regularly (not just a five minute pounding, but actual intimacy with foreplay), and tried to show sincere interest in the things she enjoyed. I think that’s a pretty good goddamn track record; I told myself that’s it, I’m not doing anything else. Working here can be a drain on your mental health, so I guess the insensibility serves some purpose. One week of time off coming up next week. Looking forward to it.

Imminent Destruction

There must be no safe space for them;
they must not be allowed to strike again.
They must be burned in the fire of the pain of their victims,
and have their ashes taken away by the wind.
History must only mention them in the context of, Never Again.
They must be condemned, and the womb they were conceived in.
They must be forced from their secret places in the darkness of the early morning,
and be left as sustenance for ravens, before the appearance of the red sky of the evening.
They must experience one thousand times fold, the torment of their victims;
left to contemplate their fate, shaken, by the sounds of their own breathing.
They will not be mourned in their leaving;
no beautiful floral arrangements;
no carriages with black horses, with blinders waiting;
no tears of elderly women, with silk gloves in black veils grieving.
In their final moments, the terror of their destruction will be upon them.

Diary of the Dead

Witness the depths of his agony; hear his weeping.
See him immersed in the throes of his suffering.
Feel the warmth, that he so desperately wished could comfort him.
Touch the tears that fell on his torn adornments.
Write down the utterances that he conveyed in listless moments.
See the illegibility of his handwriting in his last moments,
because he hadn’t slept in days — and was so tired.
Hear him speak of his plight, and how hard he had tried.
Take notice of the dark curtains in the cold room he cried.
Read the torment of the unfinished notes he wrote —
strewn on the bed where he lied.
Witness the gradual stillness of his body
and the stark motionlessness of his eyes.
Hear the piercing screams later that night,
and the constant whispers of why.
See the favorite picture he left on the dresser, of happier times.
Feel the cold raindrops, as he is carried outside.
Speak to the ones who really loved him,
and hear the echoing of his pain in their cries.
See the black veils, and feel the chill of the winds that wail
at the place where he lies.

Roses In Boxes

Roses are carried and wept over.
When petals are withered they mourn.
Roses rest when their stems are worn;
They are carried by black carriages horse drawn.
Of the soil they were made, to the soil they return;
Sometimes they are placed in wooden boxes and burned,
Or wrapped in white linen, then given to the vastness
Where violent winds blow, and restless seas churn.

Silence Falls

In the night’s darkness under a full moon alone he cries.
The night breeze on his face he feels, as the winds shake the trees.
As tears stream he looks up at the sky and falls on his knees,
And with a loud voice he screams, Oh no god please.

For to know his love is gone is torture and forlorn. 
In his weeping, tears cover the golden locket he had given her;
The blood of his love permeates his clothing and touches his skin.
He had found her, with blood around her, eyes open.
He picked her up and held her, and kissed her tender,
And tried to resurrect her with all his will;
But on that night, in her beauty, his angel lay still.

He will carry her; with a heavy heart eternally he will carry her.
In the night, he will reach for her and she will not be there.
On the pillow she slept are the strands of her hair.
In the space she lay, now he lies and says a quiet prayer;
On her pillows and hair, fall the drops of his tears.

His Prayer:
                      Oh God, please open heaven’s gates,
                      As I now in your hands place my fate,
                      For she is my heart and without my heart I cannot live.
                      I have wept and I have cried with nothing left to give.
                      My angel has been taken away from me,
                      And now I again seek to see her in your glory.
                      For my sins and my many transgressions please forgive me,
                      As I leave this world to write the rest of my story.
                      Oh Holy Mary, Mother of God please hear me.       

                                   He lies still. From open eyes tears still spill.
                                                          Silence Falls.              


Hand of the Undertaker (undertaker’s diary)

The undertaker’s gloves touch what was once hopeful and full of life.
He lies there, eyes open, but they see not and he is not.
The sterility of cold skin against cold metal is like a thousand winters.
The time for contemplation has ceased;
He lies; Still, he lies.
The darkness behind the eyes is like the ink of a black pen
Burst open into two round spaces of translucency and left to settle.
The discoloration of his nonexistence
is not found in the beauty of any rainbow.
The body has given up the ghost,
But does the ghost know it has left its shell?
The undertaker’s experienced hands will be
The last semblance of care given to him.

He does not know, for he is not present in the body.
They will cry over him;
they will shower him with flowers, but he will not know.

When he was here he counted the days and the hours but they did not show.
Yet they now stand there, teary eyes with a glare.
That they would throw dirt on him and walk away
Without even the remembrance of a genuine memory is blasphemy.
The undertaker takes it all in, for he has seen it many times before.
In the interim between life and death he contemplates his own mortality. 
The living go on, and the dead are mourned;
The solemn faced undertaker, the last recorder of them that breath no longer.
His last job is done for the night; he turns off the lights
And says goodnight to his silent residents whose souls have taken flight.