Let me trot again

I am on the road
Through the jagged paths of the unconscious,
Where forced to sleep
The stony lapse into no re-turn.
The knife, they say--
Not savory or jolly on the neck of a chicken,
If only I had a choice--
none of my own
As no line remains
In a sandstorm.

I hope to listen
To the sounds of paradise
If I make it there.
This jagged road to the unconscious,
The stony sleep into surgery.
Will I see the Christian light
At the end of the tunnel?
Or, simply the fellowship of sufferers?

This must be the research
Into the religion of death.
Maybe will be too leaden to care
If life exists on the other side--
Or simply, two worlds of disconnect?
These six hours of butchered sleep
In the landscaping of my abdomen.
The silent holocaust of my parts

I have taken a train
To the gate
Between life and death
To mind, a messy chore.

The moon that wanes today
Will be full tomorrow.
So God shooed me away--
Sinners like me.
His port was full, unprocessed.
"Not yet," my ancestors snapped.
Calmly, I turned to the resurrection
Of sleep-wake.
Confused and dazed:
"Where am I?" I sneered.
Arrogant again, you see! Forgetting that--
Life gives its own brand of justice.

Till then let me trot here for a little longer.