To where do we all go when we are done?
When our feet no longer tread solid ground?
When this life ends and the next has begun?
And we no longer make a hint of sound?
Do we frolic in the Elysian Fields:
A place where only the most worthy dwell?
Or to Tartarus, where happiness yields,
And every day there is a living hell?
Perhaps we go instead to Asphodel:
The meadows reserved for the common soul,
Or maybe there is nothing to foretell,
And the dark nothingness consumes us whole?
It would be nice to know what lies ahead,
But that can wait, for we are not yet dead.