The Wandering Spirit

The church bells are tolling,
Their sound resounding in the air
Along with the cries of the ravens
That perch upon the tower.

I stand behind my tombstone,
As they lower my body into its grave
Entombed inside the plush coffin
Watching the faces of the so called loved ones.

The prayers are said, the ceremony completed;
The funeral is over.
The earth is piled high into the pit
As I look upon the physical face granted unto me
One last time.

I am buried, I am dead.
Then why am I still standing here?
I ask myself
Shouldn’t I be getting a halo and wings?
And floating up to my heavenly abode?
Or instead get a pair of horns
And be sent down to meet
Dear grandfatherly Satan?

I seat myself delicately on a cross,
And wait for a herald of sorts to arrive,
And spirit me away
To any place more glorious
Than this world where I
Have been stranded all my life.

Days, months, years have passed,
The restlessness has come and gone.
I roam the town and enjoy
The sights as I never did before.
Those who see me,
Nod in acknowledgment
While the others
Go through life in an oblivious haze.

Watching all this,
Realization slowly came.
My place is neither in heaven
Nor in hell.
I belong here, I am rooted
For the past, present, and future
For the rest of eternity.