Like the Psyche, le Papillon, the Butterfly
That was less,
A crawling creature still hungry, always eating,
Never satisfied, could never rest,
That wallowed in the cocoon,
Apparently in no way blessed,
Who in that bleak sarcophagus said no more
Breathed no more breaths
And then awoke and burst forth with wings--
That is death.
Life that dream that flesh that time of I while the Other sleeps
And dreams of touch and taste
And pain,
Bound by gravity unlike Pure Thought
Who the Other __, existing on the immaterial plane,
Where Ideas are born,
When it ends Pure Thought awakes
And goes about the Eternal Day.
