Targeted

The black butterfly hovers over the crowd of people surrounding a blood red coffin.
Where do we go? Where do we stay? Do we go to heaven or hell?
Looking down at the coffin, six feet under, we stare eye to eye, looking and understanding what you became.
The joyful moments of life are erased from the mind of existence, showing what has become of you.
Death shrouds the crowd that surrounds the one who's ripe for worms, honing his scythe, picking his next target to take to hell.
The loved ones surround the coffin, their tears falling, making the ground sour, the flowers wilt, rocks crumble, the power of hatred too much for a mortal to handle.
The black butterfly flies to the tip of the blade of death's scythe, whispering to death, finishing his part of death's plan, taking death's side for the remainder of its life...
God stands across death by himself, light and dark wanting a new soul to increase their power --
The man standing between the two, both holding out their hand, offering him a different path.
Where do we go? Where do we stay? Do we go to heaven or hell?
All of the man's choices come into play, having no control where he goes.
The final count is done, both put down their hands, the man looks at God only giving him a slow nod.
Death smiles and holds out his hand, finally taking his new trophy, in this targeted planet, for both knew who goes to heaven or hell