<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=530564" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Eulogy</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">They buried me<br> In a box of oak wood, <br> In a soft plot of land.<br>Now, the green grass grows<br> On the surface<br> Over the space<br> Where my body lies.<br> I guess my muscles and skin<br> Deteriorate in the fertile soil, <br> Rotting away in the rain<br> As it erodes the landscape above, <br> As other peoples' footprints<br>Sink on top of the spot<br>Where I am buried.<br> The weather continues<br> While I do not, <br> But someone once told me<br> That I will live forever<br> As long as I cared for others, <br> Or as long as they cared for<br>Me.<br> Maybe that's what heaven is.<br> Maybe<br>That's<br> What<br> Heaven<br> Is.<br> <br>I don't know.<br>I'm not sure where my soul is.<br> It could be taking a break<br> Or it might've found a new job<br> Or something.<br> Whatever. It's not here: <br> With me.<br> I'm just laying down, <br> A carcass in a casket, <br> So perhaps it got bored<br> From waiting around, <br> Anticipating that I'd get up<br> And take a few more steps<br> Forward—in any direction.<br> But I don't<br>I'm stiff and I'm starting to smell, <br> My whole body is tight and clenched, <br> Yet somehow saggy and bruised<br> Like a three week old nectarine.<br> My skin winkles from decay.<br> I don't worry about it.<br> I can't.<br> There's nothing I can do.<br> I'm in God's hands now.<br> Faith will carry me.<br> Maybe that's what heaven is.<br>Maybe<br> That's<br>What<br> Heaven<br> Is.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My neighbors don't say much, <br> So I often wonder<br> What they're thinking.<br>I can't see them, <br> Or anything at all, really, <br> But I know they're there.<br> Do they hear me screaming<br> So softly into the white linen padding<br> Of my pillows and sheets? <br> Are they curious too<br> Or are the busy<br> Hiding away in the dirty Earth<br> That surrounds us all? <br>I would hold my hands out to hug you, <br>Though I've never met you, <br>If only to say hello, neighbor.<br> We could discuss our similar experiences, <br> But we're too far estranged and divided<br> By something—<br> Isolated in the muddy walls<br> As they close in.<br> There's someone above, <br> Dropping flowers—<br> They're dead too, aren't they? —<br> And telling me to rest in peace.<br> Maybe that's what heaven is.<br> Maybe<br>That's<br> What<br> He aven<br>Is.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Tim+Stensloff">Tim Stensloff</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=530564" data-title="Eulogy de Tim Stensloff" data-description="They buried me In a box of oak wood, In a soft plot of land. Now, the green grass grows On the surface Over the space Where my body lies. I guess my muscles and skin Deteriorate in the fertile soil, Rotting away in the rain As it erode..."></div> </div> </div>

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