The Book of the Dead.

What eyes are these?
They look outwards to a world that I am not a part of.

And is this my mind struck with fear?
as if lightning had hit something nearby.

Am I not more than the sum of such parts?
Parts that are here today and gone tomorrow?

Why should I fear becoming what I was born to become?

Death isn't a loss, it is a transformation.

Perhaps it is pain that I fear, yet I don't feel this, I am not a part of such worldly things, no I am removed from such, pain is only a curtain call for a show.

But I am alone, I play this alone, a butterfly's wings never seen.
An opera with no singer,
A song with no words,
A movie that plays only to me.

And I am the director and the star.