By Damion Michaels
See the grey smoke rise into the sky,
Listen to the elders in the village cry.
Horrid is youth that has lost its way,
Never to be seen or grasped another day.
In slow motion, we shall move through the light,
And be oblivious to our destined plight.
Who shall hold in their heart vengeful malice?,
Shall not find paradise here, and alas . . .
We stand before God with heads bowed,
We stand in awe of his grace and respect of the hallowed.
And when judged and passed into eternal bliss,
We awake, and wonder - what if - this . . . ?