People ask, is it a place you visit?
An accounting, while passing through,
Part of some endless cycling thing,
Where you move on, after paying your due.
–
Do we want to know the truth of it?
Could the answer be divine?
Is our questioning even relevant?
Are we just searching for a sign?
–
Do we go to an endless sleep;
To a mortal’s final rest?
An instant state of oblivion,
With no pause for a moral test.
–
Are we meeting life’s deadline?
Doubts are commonplace.
Do we struggle there on hands and knees?
Or, do we walk with grace?
–
Is the final journey a lengthy one?
Do we need to cross a border?
How are we judged, if at all?
Is there a weighing of chaos and order?
–
What kind of judgment waits?
Is it a balance of love and hate?
Who made the reservation and when?
Do we want to know the date?
–
When the man with the scythe whispers,
As he does, again and again.
You can make your own enquiries.
You’re bound to find out then.