Death is a place for lovers of truth

I am strangely delighted with my new self, my  death.

Life it seems is but a tiny grain in the bin.

It isn’t a question of light versus darkness.

Nor of silence, nor of nothingness, nor of Heaven nor Hell.

No. Death is a place of transition, a museum of totality,

A silent gathering place for what was and what will be.

How I love my dead self! How free it flows in timeless ripples!

 

What dreadful things they say about me, now that I am safely dead!

Things they would never have said while my heart beat steadily.

Things that had more to do with their own faulty deceptions than my shortcomings.

Why do living beings spend so much time inventing lies, wagging they tongues endlessly?

Death is where you can love without limits, where time is an unknown factor.

Must living things die to find the truth of life?