I died that Day

I won't be kneeling,
don't think I'll have legs.
As I'm before him,
Ready to beg.

It's all about the sorrow,
coming to a head.
Disheveled like an earthquake,
All I'll manage is dread.

To tell you the truth,
I imagined tears of joy.
But the very picture displaying,
will be a singed boy.

Even before I'm damned,
cast so far away,
my body will be burned,
nothing for eyes to lay.

In my final form,
the collection of my dust.
A saggy vacuum press,
he'll gather all my rust.

I thought God would murmur,
begin crying that day,
but to my horrific surprise,
he sits with no dismay.

As if I meant nothing,
so very long so dead,
God commands my punishment,
saying what must be said.

The spiraling horror confluence,
emotions screaming-roaring loud,
every last fiber,
will be thrown down.

The laughter born existence,
will no longer be.
Deep sorrow sadness,
no memories for me.

Just another failure,
common rhetoric gone,
God will rid the dust,
that refused to sing his songs.