Astonishing Poem by Stan Petrovich

Thinkers are posed with the question, is there a soul? Maybe
They approach an answer through neuroscience:
The synapses are passed on in death
To some universal warehouse;
There, accumulated, they bubble and squeak for many
Worlds to employ,
Recreating different or perhaps identical souls,
Spanning the white light awaiting,
The feeling of Love everywhere,
The joyous occasion when all hearts are one,
And the perfect balance of nature and brain coalesce.