Purgatory isn't pleasant. It isn't like
A relative's house, warm and patient as you
Settle beside the fireplace. It isn't like
A lounging salon where people linger,
Looking at paintings as they wonder
What they might make their fate to be.
No. Purgatory is a waiting room,
Washed out into a lifeless white.
You just stare at the ceiling
And picture the pearly gates,
Pondering if they would be ivory bone
Or gruesome, gleaming gold.
In such an empty, faded place,
All you can do is wait for your fate
To call your name and beckon you to the end.
YOU ARE READING
Rose, Prose, Poetry
PoetryExploring topics of love, limerence, grief, and everything in between, this is a collection of 100 poems written over a year. The works both reflect inner emotions and outward connections, attempting to capture the interconnected nature of the worl...
