Hypothetically, what if I (a born again atheist)...

tentatively took page from playbook of devout believers...

Allowing, enabling, and providing
cautious optimism to abound

thus easing grief instead
reason to rejoice found

once corpse cremated

or buried underground.

Whereby reincarnation will eventually...

mitigate grief otherwise...

mind numbing skull will experience

shell shock twill forever stun

unable to square circle

defying reality analogous to accept flying nun
(matter of fact) reunite each loved one,

thus resisting automatic reflex against secularism

just for fun.

Bidding thy nonagenarian
papa permanently farewell...

tis no rhyme nor reason
for me to cry inconsolably

versus ruminating diametrically

opposed outlook pray tell.

How bittersweet mortality doth taste

grievance especially unpalatable,
when existence of

Boyce Brandon Harris erased,

whereby fading memories
offer small consolation baste
within the noggin of his sole sun

twice orthodontically braced.

I still remember, when ye shlepped me
to Lancaster Cleft palate clinic

(mother came along for the ride;
plus she enjoyed stopping at Entenmann's
Exton, Pennsylvania location)
splurging for sweet tooth.

Doctor Mazaheri (small statured)

(a renown prosthodontist)

fitted yours truly for speech appliance

to rectify submucous cleft palate -

a bony defect in the midline

or center of the bony palate

imparted nasal twang

pronouncedly noticeably distinct

mutation genetically bequeathed

middle offspring born this way

offering yet another defect

whereupon token scapegoat

opportunistically targeted by bullies.

Twilight (zone) of your life

metaphorical draws curtain call

concomitantly ushering

remembrance of things past.

Recapitulation of most salient sunny events

fondly recalled mostly boyhood circumstances

many incorporating Lilliputian Matthew Scott Harris

forever jinxed (think hoisted by his own petard)

thus butt of jokes and laughingstock

among madding crowd.

Alas, methinks how robust, intimidating

and indomitable dad appeared

when yours truly a wee lad

undersized even now as an elder statesman (ha)
still the runt of rat pack

(though this measly once upon a time miserly

mousy man no pack rat)

matter of fact downsizes personal trappings

when I eventually make trek
across River Styx.

During interim (between now and then)

hope springs eternal

that suspended animation courtesy cryogenics

will halt biological aging (particularly mine)
preserving till end of time

freeze frame where mise en scène

retaining vestigial said countenance

portraying boyish looking good (older) fella

until peace on Earth

and good will to all men/women prevails.

I thaw (ought) how grand

to donate and/or repurpose body

as science fiction becomes reality,

where mise en scene art becomes life

cessation of senescence held in check

once defunct corporeal edifices

gentrified to instill longevity

twerking, seeding, pollinating...

Homo sapiens fostering civilization

to take root across solar system and beyond

sphere where sunlight doth bathe bedlam.