The Book of the Dead.

Time;
There is always too much,
Or too little,
it is like beauty; we never like what we have.

Life is so fleeting, like drawing in the sand.
Everything has no meaning,
like looking at pictures of words you can't read or understand.

Self; what am I really? But this blood, skin and bones?
What is me; but a mind too sick to cope.
A self is too self important, or a self too damning.

This earthly plane is just suffering, always too hot, or too cold.
I stand the same; always too hungry, thirsty or in pain.

And of the soul, what shall I say?
it matters not.
For the place I go has no walls, nor sky, it is not constructed of the ideas of man. It is not a heaven, but nor it be a hell.
It is a void, a circle, a place where seeds grow.
In a sphere of water I lay out all my fears, and all my memories as I grow smaller still, a seed I was and a seed I will be again.
Plant this tree in a place of peace, or let me be nothing, for nothing is what I seek.