Do they have pianos in eternity?
I wonder if my fingers will find the keys,
ghosting melodies into endless air.

Above, the cephalopods twist.
Heaven’s creatures curl their slick embrace,
tender and obscene,
around the unguarded essence of angels,
who arrive mute, shivering,
their first thought always the same:
“This is not the light I imagined.”

Here, at the cliff’s edge, I linger.
The weight of my ancestors pulls,
their groans buried in the earth,
their whispers caught in the wind.
I hear them call me back.

Below, a parade of desperate avatars:
muscle-bound preachers of greed and grit,
hustling dreams in cans of caffeine,
peddling empty promises
to echoing minds
while plastic women twirl like prayers.

What paradise is this?
What God blesses such a fractured hymn?
What vision burns in your gaze,
when you are trapped 
in this 
America?

Scot Gresham-Lancaster
Research Artist/Maker
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Brunswick ME Dec 13, 2024