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.