Frozen Heaven and Hot Hues Hell
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
When I am dead, my secrets will be turned
To frost up on a pane, up in the New
Jerusalem, or maybe will be burned
In stained glass down in Hell, or on a pew
The frost will settle in an ultra cold
Cathedral where the prayers of friends will lick
Them into undead thoughts again. The gold
In heaven’s glass or in Hell’s panes will pick
Out memories that Christ feels ought to live.
His breath will blow an even colder breath
To save their ice. His tonguing will forgive
Some sins at least and save them from fire’s death.
…A closet up in heaven will contain
….The hottest of them like a frozen stain.