With a quizzical frown, a child asks me Where is Heaven?
To which I instinctively shrug. I often times have wondered the same thing myself.
Heaven is the warmth inside of you, I suppose. If not inside, why have we not seen It?
But alas, when I die, inside is not where I have planned to go.
No. Heaven far surpasses my worldly reach and rest instead a fortress,
With fortifications comprising of incredulous thought, shattered only by conviction.
Such simple happiness waits inside as to be inconceivable until expiration.
A sweet, caressing breeze when buried under thick hot jungle.
Heaven is where Love blankets itself around you in order to thaw off the years of pain.
A thick and weightless wave of unadulterated sunlight designed only for you,
Calling clearly Come Come, we have waited for you an eternity,
A blink of a weary eye.
A place made distinctly for one, where all go for rest,
Growing enough to accommodate each soul with graceful ease,
Much like the human heart.
But now it seems a misty island known only by sense, not sight.
One must take The Great Leap to reach the foreign shores.
But flighty is this Heaven. Nail down and image and it melts away into vapor,
Taunting me, not unkindly, to find the entrance to the ultimate playground.
I think It likes to play.
Whispering like the smoke from an over-used wick, I plead for reprieve.
And mercifully, It blows out my blaze.
Rest. Rest. Rest. That is all It is. What more could you want?