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They scoff at all the whispers
From beyond the misty veil
Gleaning unrequited rumors
Against which unbelievers flail.


‘There is only nothingness’
‘No life unending bliss’
‘No heaven’s cloudy castles’
‘Or burning pitch in hell’s abyss’


The final silence all endure
Once the puppet strings are cut
But who was the puppeteer?
That made our bodies strut?


There is a simple answer
For the animate in us
We are supernal spirits
Inside this mortal fuss


Like a hand inside a glove
Once removed is still a hand
But there’s no longer impetus
When it’s no longer manned.


And whither do our natures go
Now separate and free
The vessel it once habitates
Will surely cease to be


So somewhere they are gathered
Spirits light and aeriform
Waiting for fulfillment
To be renewed in perfect form


The whispers we are hearing,
If you consider such a thing,
Could be just a living soul
Free of pain and on the wing.


Aeglyn March 201


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