When I die, I want to go quietly – free from the miseries

of my body breaking down, organs sickened,

cutting off life as drift away.

When I die, I want to wake in a better world,

away from earth’s torments + the adverse emotions

gurus say we must bear.

When I die, I want to see Jesus’ face + wash his feet,

though he’d insist on washing mine because

that’s what he did for the apostles.

When I die, I have questions for God, like:

“Why is life so complex?” – like You gave us

a riddle with no answer.

When I die, I want to see my father + tell him I’m sorry,

do whatever souls do in the hereafter,

watch a ballgame in a heavenly living room.

When I die, who knows? None of this will happen,

or all of it – or I’ll be reborn as a butterfly,

flap golden wings in blissful ignorance.

(Photo by Guillaume on Unsplash)