the morning after dying

The butterfly who dreams me now,
Announces that my death has been;
The joy and freedom of the path
Flow from the heart and being seen.
Illusions of identity,
Cohere as senses run their course,
And when the feelings are released,
The images fly back to source,
So I will soon forget myself,
As memory disintegrates,
And pleasure, pain and horror shows
The fictions of these solid states.
Then back again and to the start,
These layers of the colours blind,
And sound of mind and sound of heart,
Dimensions that my body finds.
And light is built, like silken webs,
To catch the free fall of our souls,
In being caught, we come to know
The mirror that we are not real,
So there is nothing to forgive,
And every action was ordained,
And then the gods who call us back
Dissolve what separation gained,
And no-one overstays their time,
Nor damage done where there is blood,
No need to leave, to nurse the wound,
Or stay the stage, or tend the should.
Then only knowing you is real,
No meaning hidden deep above,
Already beauty is complete,
And being with is finding love.
So I pretend again to breathe,
Make folly of this construct here,
And play, a moment longer then,
The song my soul does love so dear.