a bitter poem i wrote.
where does your soul go when you die?
does it hide in a nook of your favorite book?
or is it safe up high with a guy in the sky?
and what is the form that your soul shall take?
do you hope at most you'll be a ghost?
or fear you'd reincarnate as a snake?
and who will think of you when you're gone?
the moon? the trees? the earth? the leaves?
or possibly no one, not even the sun.
so is there truth in the afterlife?
perhaps, my friend, for those born again.
for the rest of us, life was life.