Death is not some awful saw blade, coming to sever you from this life;
Death is an untroubled sleep, an unobserved nonawakening.
We don't miss the life, the love; we do not know to miss anything,
We are as asleep; asleep the same as before birth,
Before not being alive came to be called death.
Only those we leave behind may miss our life, and only for so long
As life keeps beating out it's kaleidoscopic moments through them.

Since when is becoming less than you were, but as much
As you used to be, to be viewed as only a loss?
The first gift of life came unexpectedly,
So for all we know, there may be further gifts waiting to be bestowed;
And whether or not we can remember
To remember the living that we once did, in between the forgetting,
Only god himself can know;  this god who is rumored
To have a longer memory than any of us, in all our inherent weakness.

Is death long, you ask;  is it very long?
Death is only the one second, between forgetting and awakening:
It's something you've done every night of your life-
And memory is only the persistent dream of awakening.