And From There?

She skipped Communion, ate a suicide note and chewed fentanyl for breakfast,
faithlessness revealed. Judas to the popular friend.
Double-crossed, scandal. Karma 
on a door room floor, self-betrayal, 
wheeled out.
And then Death arrives
carting her disloyal soul away
to a restricted lunch 
in the cold cold Cosmos,
where bulging eyes and veins
didn't jump from Shooting Stars;
nor did her rat-squeaky voice squeal 
in the line to ride 
Purgatory's Wheel. 
Stream of consciousness spinning. No pause.
​Recycling souls like squeezed aluminum
into a new car part or something else that starts off shiny. 
Regrets pivot and pale.
Grinding expired doctrines and prescriptions, 
like teeth crunching down on Vicodin, the wheel gnaws.
Turning in sync with the globe’s icy axis –
life goes on (and on…and on….). Everything orbits.
Time replaces grief with Shes-No-Longer-Hurting,
so by the Last Supper, she will be self-lynched and hanging 
in the form of something spit-shine New, upside down.
No memory 
of respecting boundaries 
or when she’d crossed them.
No flashbacks 
of sober hugs or 
when opioids pulled her down.
No recollection 
of her former existence 
that never reached gray. But returns 
like energy’s infinite boomerang,
moving, twisting within
another circulating womb 
of life-before-and-after-Death.
There she goes again, 
wheeled in.