The mortal soul must pass—yes, this I know—
But none have e’re returned to truly tell
What vehicle of transit bore them so,
Or if their rest be heaven, or be hell.
Yes, many claim of voices heard in dreams,
Fantastic phantoms seen in seance rooms,
Strange visitants that drift in haloed beams
Or apparitions wandering in the gloom.
The only thing that’s sure is here and now:
That in my arms a wondrous truth I hold—
That we have lived a life of endless love,
And etched our transit in a book of gold.
Of what’s to come, I’ll say I have no fear;
Where love shall lead—I know we both are there.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.