Poem for a Whimsical Mortician

The sky is overflowing
with dysfunctional messiahs.

They are young.
They have the eyes of boys
and the hearts of kinds.
They are trapped by
a ruthless aching for
brighter lights, greater warmth,
life more holy and free.

Tomorrow they will realize
time grows the way
we want it to, and that
all anyone ever searches for
is a place where love is possible.