There are

promises from the other side

when you die you become afterwards

a retrospective

you live at the back

of life with the door ajar

stripped down from this side to the other

the return with a billion light years

the meager hope lies on its reverse side

the view narrowed to some space between

like a split atom a stylish figure

Looking back to the earth

Trough the slit of the door jaar

Just barely barely able to look

barely like scratches in the light

the eyes squinted in the backlight

with the neon of all non-colours

you can no longer leave the door

until someone turns life around and closes the door

every view devoid of memory

how that comes about is a superfluous question

that is simply because we are not used to anything else