The Field

The field, littered with yellow and red.
Sways in the wind without a care in the world.
A man, lying alone in this swaying field.
Greeted by the illuminating blue with a puff of white.

He closes his eyes,
as he knows that none of this
is real life.
Tears rolls down his eye
because he is dead.

The last memory before this field
is a bright light in the night
and a loud honk.

He sit up, got greeted by a elder man.
The elder smiles, and points behind him.
The man looks behind him, and sees his father
A smile creeps up on him,
because his father commited suicide when
the man was only five years old.

The man is surprised to see no scars on his father's neck
as he hanged himself when he was living.
"Is this heaven?" The man asks
"No, there's no such thing as Heaven or Hell"
"Then where are we?"
"We are in the backyard of a house,
where you were born."
The man looks behind him
and see his very first house
he used to live in.
"We are a ghost now," Father said.

Author's Note

A random, somewhat cheerful? poem I was in the mood for, what do you think?!

Reviews

[eeoopig]

Cheerful oh right! Ha ha ha. This tells an interesting story - yet again good work! :)