Frightened.

They say that heaven is like TV: A perfect little world that doesn't really need me.
This poem was inspired by the above song lyric.

Crank the dial 'round
Anonymous channels blur
Which to pick?
Too many.
None are what they were.

Try to mute the sound
But their voices echo still
Shut them out?
Hopeless.
A hole for them to fill.

Eyes closed tightly now
But their images burn bright
Blind yourself?
Possibly.
Replace with eternal night.

Static creeps across
Their essence ebbs away
Not influenced?
Impossible.
They cling, are here to stay.

The image flickers in, out
And you fear to be alone
Giving in?
Always.
Your soul is theirs to own.