I’m often caught up in wondering
Where I’ll go
When my heart stops beating
And I become as cold and dead
As the ground I’m buried in.
Will my soul fly into the sun?
Or is there some grand palace
Reserved for the broken?
Maybe there’s. . .
On second thought, probably not.
Will all the good I tried to do on Earth
Determine my stay,
Or was my eternal jail cell predetermined?
Does it really matter what I do
Or who I impress?
Maybe I’ll scatter into dust and atoms
As just another ingredient of the cosmos
Or find my way towards Venus
And stay to watch as my home withers away
And dies. . .
Like I did.