So what happens when we die? Does it matter if we try To be good folks, if the soul’s purified - Destined to thrive?
Hell’s not a station - More like a bad a vacation In the shade of imagination When we’re still alive.
Still, the soul lasts forever. And the light’s like a tether Never to be severed From the virtues of mankind.
The goodness is there - Whether or not we’re aware, In every person laid bare, But we need to align.
When our souls are reborn, Since the minds won’t be torn, Make us not the forlorn, And make humanity kind.
About the Creator
Angela Dykhuis
Hello, I'm Angie. I am a soul not of this world reincarnated many times. In this lifetime, my brain is a mess; however, I see beauty in all things. I use what I see to paint pictures with words. They are the fragments of a broken mind.
Keep reading
More stories from Angela Dykhuis and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Missing Ingredient
The first time I saw her, she was wearing a velvety, red ribbon in her hair. She carried a small leather backpack everywhere. She searched the forest by turning stones, checking beneath shrubs, listening to the wind as if it might carry an answer.
By Imola Tóthabout 11 hours ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.