The Atheist

Feeling like a cold blue artifact.
A lifeless steam-bug collecting
dust in the dark stone closet
underground.

Bright little angels used to
tell me to make the most of life,
for I would only live once.
Keen as they are on making
it to the afterlife,
I proposed the falsity of
their statements; the
implications that you live
just once make sense only
to the atheist or agnostic.

On the surface above it could
be bright or dark; frost-bitten,
or the most beautiful day in
eternity. In death,
Tears slow:
Entrapped in the eyeless corpse