some do not make it

atop the roof of his apartment complex, he
looked down at the world and raised his
hands as to make
wings:

"on his 7th day, he fell in silence . . .
and the world shook beneath his wake."

the world spun around him, mountains
turned to plains, whores became
saints, all the love in the world
turned to heavenly music,
all those memories, all those doubts,
every inch of his body cold from
his last drink, whiskey, dry,
and all at once,
death was
heavenly
beautiful
once
again.