When we die
And all our thoughts
Become suddenly
Unhoused,
Set free to wander aimlessly
All over the planet,
Probably all over the cosmos,
Will they grow morose
Being on their own
Without a cabeza full
Of other cerebrations
To interact with?
Will they become disheartened
When they encounter
The throngs of wandering cogitations
That have been left
With no fixed abode
And are knocking about
Looking for someone,
Anyone,
To listen to what they have to say?
Or will they after a time
Begin to fade,
To become hazy and translucent,
Unable to recall
Exactly what point it was
They meant to get across?
And will they find their way at last
To that friendly little tavern
Somewhere near the Pleiades
Where retired notions and concepts,
Ideas, fancies, speculations, hypotheses
Come together,
No longer trying to impress anyone
With how brilliant or insightful they are
But simply to enjoy
Each other’s company,
Feeling quite relieved
That they have
Nothing left to prove?
