Death deals from a stacked deck.
Our own DNA, planned obsolescence
seeping toward us, inevitable,
a silent tsunami.
Mario Rivera, in pure form.
bottom of the ninth,
bows to the batter,
three pitches later,
bows to the next.

I have other plans.
I will walk on water,
but my soul will not be wet.
I will dig into the batters box,
blast a home run into the back of the bleachers.

“How,” you ask. “Pleading and begging in your prayers?”

No.

My soul knows its source.
Death hath no dominion over it.
What matters, this pasty flesh,
when Spirit shines through,
reflecting eternities Light?