Afterlife
— a poem by Christopher Ozog

Intellect is a recidivist
that repents in
Ignorance's den.
I'm a pencil
that has written
for the past,
but was published
On a line,
scribbled into
the future
where
clairvoyant
calendars
bury their fate
into our
midnight dirt.
When these clocks
accelerate,
you are an inferno
of ash
while your body
lays frigidly
on an icicle,
paving the way,
in December,
to compromise,
with only the shackling
remains,
of a greying heart.
Someday,
we will all end up,
as folded tents,
discarded,
as we descend.
and Our remains 
will be
old ruins
standing next to
Mt. Rushmore.
Volcanic chants
will erupt
in your head. 
always asking
where you will go,
when the dirt
kisses your face.

____
The Poet: Christopher Ozog is a poet who resides in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He has been previously published in Burning Word Literary Journal and recently founded Lavender Wolves Literary Journal. 
The Artist: Sam Smith