As I watch my cold, gray decaying body lay 

in the desert orange sand, stiffly wrapped in cloth,

I listen to the conversation that is most certainly 

about me. A gentle voice from a man with a halo,

(probably not a man at all…an angel).

“This man shall be taken to god, you must go,” 

the angel says with strength, while still gentle.

He says to the raven, the symbol of death, 

feathers black, with a tint of dark blue, 

revealed by the deserts setting sun. 

A scoff erupts from the ravens mat, black beak.

“This man shall come with me,

    for he has done wrong.”

The raven's voice, a whisper so loud it’s

the sound of ten birds screeching. 

I look back at my body, and their voices fade.

They bickered so long the earth claimed 

what my soul left behind.

And new life begins to sprout.