None o' us could, ever, really know,
- just exactly, where each o' us go
- when all o' the bright lights go dim  
- an' our bodies are, suddenly, limp.
Do we, all, get to see some grand being
- when we cease to continue breathing;
- or- does it all, simply, turn to dark black
- with no chance o' us ever getting back?
"Should we find ourselves six feet under
- or, up, high above the thunder?" I wonder.
Do our souls elevate to some magical space
- or do we, all, lie still in our boxes with grace?
We might not ever know the, exact, truth
- but, even still, the trees - they bear lively fruit
- an' the Earth still spins round' the Sun..
An' - for now, e'rything seems to be calm.