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On the Fall

I had a dream where all the souls of Earth
were massed, and spilled past far horizon's end.
According to their faith, and not their birth,
they gathered, and their borders didn't blend.
Then lemming-like, all groups approached Death's Ledge
like rivers to a common waterfall,
and there, died each Religion's frontmost edge
where final fate was same for each and all.
Irrelevent all colors worn, no creed
outlives it's propagationist's demise.
The icy call of death, each man must heed,
his dogma disappearing as he dies.
No angels come, that men have ever seen,
to ferry them, where none have ever been.