After Death, what becomes of me? Am I still here
To grab hold of another life without a break?
Or do I become nothingness, absent of thought?
No one living knows really, yet so much is taught
Of the nature awaiting all. It’s my mistake
If I claim to be certain my knowing is clear.

Each of us is a pamphlet of many pages.
It’s a system of thought one may cater to heart.
Each page is of a different self. Some are more dense
Than the others. The purest self needs no defense
Due to its lack of seeming a viable part
Of our being and doing and earning wages.

Every page will disintegrate except the one
Least attached to identity with time and place.
That page is the pure spirit – the long narrative
Of existence eternal. What more can I give
To improve the condition of my human race?
I can speak of my own journey ever begun.