Are all our lives empty, a dot sublime?
A flash or dash of existential time:
Dimensions and souls, we may refine,
Or end as splattered egos on the ethereal design?

We see, we think and therefore we are,
Relatively able to see the stars wide and far
Imagining everything our minds can dream
The good and the bad: an endless eerie stream

As shivers run up and down our mortal spines,
Whenever ghosts and ghouls are divined.
Some believe in what their senses say,
Some refuse existence that shows the way

No one knows what may lie ahead,
We have to wait, until we are dead
And there’s the rub, the end of thought
When hope and kindness are all we brought.

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