LiMbO By Don Bernal

On the left stood anyone who might have tried to save his life.
Friends, family, loved ones, teachers, coworkers, good strangers.
On the right stood the ones who didn't care.
Everyone else.
So goes that balance of it all.
So goes it there.
In the middle stood he, called upon the trial of his life.
Not if he won or lost, but if he played it right.
That was part of the game he didn't believe.
That how you played the game mattered as much, even more, than what happened.
In the front stood the judge.
Behind stood the jury.
The thoughts were sent out.
He was tried, in the court of life.
Thought they decided his fate at the trial,
He decided it a long time ago.
It took the span of his whole life.
But that's all the evidence he took.
His fingerprints left behind
On every soul in the room.
Then we find the truth of it all
Did he love or hurt more
The decision came at the stroke of twelve
All stood, save he, who was lying on himself
The dead man's fate had come to past
Standing above him, Judge said stand
Though the hardest thing he had ever had to do
The weight of his life stood on him too
His legs braced for fall, his feet already burning inside
The Judge spoke and said The Jury has reached
A Verdict - says them He who is on trial
Must stand for his life where ever he goes.
The weight of everything he has ever done
The gravity of all actions occurred
The mass of all words, slandered and heard
Every thought, dreams, hope, fear
Every smile, frown, punch, or beer
He will stand for his life, or he will fall

There is no else, after all

So the dead man looked about
So no one else with him, it was all dark
Finally he asked is this heaven or hell
Finally he saw that there was no one to tell
Dead men tell no tales
He found no solace in being dead there
Was he in heaven or was he in hell
The dead man asked, yelled, pleaded in the air
The weight of his life, over his shoulder
Can I move, did I approve, was my life in order
Through the darkness he could not tell.
Was he alone, or merely in jail
Dead men heard no tales
He spent countless seconds waiting for wind
Whisper, creak, step, blow
But no sound came from darkness, not even his own
Is this heaven, is this hell
Will he spend forever waiting to be told
Spend eternity with the weight of his life on his back
But he could move, couldn't he, is that a good sign
But where did he go, for he went into the dark
Where he came from, started, ended, parked
Over and over he went over his life in detail
Dead men just wait, and wait, and wait, and wait
Finally he yelled, in his heart, mind, soul, voice, body
IS THIS HEAVEN OR IS THIS HELL
Out of the whisper in the corner of darkness came: can't you already tell.


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