When it's our time to go
And our bodies lie still.
Our flesh is cold
And our eyes are nothing more,
Than an empty stare.
Our spirits take flight
But to where?
To the heavenly skies.
Being opened to the chosen.
Or to the darkest of dark dungeons.
Where evil burns,
By the dozen.
Is this a predetermined time
Or just as random,
As our crime.
Do we suffer more pain,
Or does it finally,
Quiet the rains?
Can we feel, touch, speak or see?
Do we smell,
The pleasure of being freed?
Do we fly, Or do we flee?
Are we in the sky
Or do we just die?
Or is it
I'm questioning the being,
That will never be?
Inspirelations 