My Rights Poem by Aram Stefanian

I guess, we're never gonna be psyched up for death
If our soul is immortal, it will inherit our ingrained habits
The Valley of Death freaks us out, we have to save our breath
The spastic nightmares breed quickly like rabbits

We're calling on the angels to prevent us falling into the abyss
Yet we cannot lean on their fragile wings for good
They tell us that even in heaven we can't enjoy bliss
Unless we're free from dread, we'll be misunderstood

The netherworld recruits volunteers to shovel coal
Most of the demons fleed to earth to melt into the crowd
What awaits me after I succeed in saving my soul?
I wish I knew my rights, if everything will be allowed?