What if

What if my soul becomes finite
And I have not one more mitigating thought
and I am swallowed in doom in my mustard colored bedroom
and I cannot purge thoughts of my mother's death
What if Bukowski seizes my neck and 
Hunter S. Thompson takes captive my memory
and the sky grows more dimmer
and the winter wanes into ice plummeted hues
of white gray moisture
what if God would not allow Duluth to rise again
and he keeps the stratosphere captured
in his eminent domain 
of an unblended purgatory
while silent whispers of animal life are muffled
God has chosen to make the the landscape dead
and the streets frozen in death
the ice penetrates each natural and man made object
man will earnestly try to play out with intervals
his purpose on a sunken horizon
winter is my doom 
and my buried conscience
yet we keep trying 
to make something of it.
it's a natural death to accept it
and not to move on.
don't breathe
hold your breath than gasp
 and you will find
you are the only one still alive.