hmmm... a different kind of poem

Without God

In death who knows to rest?
Who has lied about its peace?
Of morose and lonesome tragedies,
death seems furthest from the least.

From the moment of one’s death,
who can in any way abstain?
Who’s to say forever, there
a man will not remain?
To death won’t every theory
of death seem rather futile?
Won’t life’s wisdom die in death,
Where life’s thoughts are juvenile?
In death who is to speculate
that torture won’t endure,
and depths from every darkest night
won’t reign forevermore?

For Death has never heard of rest,
Nor has Death considered peace,
but in Death one thing is certain,
In Death— the life of man will cease.