I MetaMorphis Who Was My Angel.


I metamorphis, who was my angel.


In the dark, shadowy

hold of morgue drawers,
in the wee hours of mourn

when hearts are stilled.

Between the blinking away

of tears from a relative's eye
and in the space between that

last breath and eternities grasp,
the soul is illuminated under

the face of death's dark shroud,
as it exits the body unseen

by earthly mortals.

The dead are laid out with

their hands crossed over what
most would assume to be

its exact location,
perhaps in hopes of

keeping it within,
and thereby renewing

the life lost.

This ancient custom  

has been observed forever,
even cave people were

found in such postures.
and most amazing is the facts of
people who were

scientifically weighed
at the exact moment

of their death,
each lost eight

ounces of weight,
times hundreds of

case studies,
completely unexplainable

 to all medical experts.

The souls lifted 

 away with stealth,

and no light escaped then
under critcal gazes

and skeptical studies.

Cremation does not

prevent the souls departure,
the flames that consume

flesh flare brighter
for just a split second,

as the soul moves on.

We will all undergo the

afterglow of dying,
and bear witness to it

as we leave the flesh prison,
that has held us all the

years we've existed.

We are beings of light,

encased in opaque shells
that are meant to

dissolve and free us,
when we have reached

the point of being no more
reclaimed by the brilliant

light of the heavenly beings

who take us to our maker.





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