Poem for a Dying World

I wake in the morning with a pounding in my head.
No, not in my head,
the neighbor is building a large boat in his backyard,
he believes he is dying,
but there is hope for his children.

The Earths gravitational pull seems almost non-existant as
I roll off the mattress and onto the bare floor-
or it it the ceiling? Where is that music coming from?
Outside in the yard the grass is dying,
the earthworms weep in their buried holes.
No one seems to notice.

Down the street, mourners gather in memorial park.
The marching band is assembling,
anxious to start the procession.
Tears well in my eyes.
The thought of another funeral parade is too much to handle.
I turn my eyes from the window,
why are these walls not painted?

My heart races and I suddenly run screaming from the room;
"Absolution for the masses!" I shout.
With one big burst of adrenalin
I crash through the large stained glass window;
which doesn't shatter.

Only the ceiling, with its white pitted surface
and the green carpeted floor remain parallel.
The walls are forced to follow suit;
there is no other way.
Outside, the procession has started.

I cradle my weary head in my hands
and repeat over and over;
"The Lord, my savior, shall lead me to redemption,"
but in the end, I conclude;
man's only perfection, is his imperfection.