Afterwards Poem by Greg Costello

When bodily expired and clay-enclosed,
What fate awaits the spirit unreposed?

To be raised up by kindred tractor beam,
Or shown the way by light of halo gleam.

Perhaps this only happens when soul guide,
Grants delivery to God's arms open wide.

I dreamt my spirit would not seperate,
And trapped inside its claustrophobic crate,

Undestined then for some celestial clime,
Suffocated, and died yet one more time.

So. Was it nothing or some metaphor?
Wear this life out, perchance there is no more.