This here, the idle death march;

One arm holding onto us,

The other dangling off the side of the earth.

In this waiting room where we watch over you.

Observing the strange state of consciousness you're residing in

Your soul loosening grip between each breath,

And every rattle that brings you closer to death.

I try to talk to you but the words aren't coming through,

On this plane of existence where thoughts are intangible,

And my heart; no longer accessible.

Unwilling to be heard, spoken, or conveyed,

Like the truth dangling off the side of the page.

We reside in this purgatory, this cell

As we wait for the specter to call you back.

Sitting perfectly still while you're caught in suspension.

Between Hell and High water,

You'll find the promise of Heaven.