When my sould leaves my flesh

When my soul leaves my flesh will it know what it's leaving? A dress, a coat, a mask, a robe, a lie? Does it know it is leaving what made her live and die? Act, reply 
in a world that makes her shy? She (yes, my soul is a she, you ask why)  she
shows herself through me. I am my soul and my body; embodied soul, you see?
And this soul has a dress, only one to be correct."It is made of living tissue that re weaves itself until the end.", And I? My friend, I...will never (even) know why.
This dress is my soul's dress, only hers. It has a motor, a pounding heart. It has color: the color of what's behind. It has energy, my soul that sees. It has intelligence, my spirit, the spirit in me.
This dress is what made my soul become a part of the world. What made her need a seat in a table. A place in the theater. A place to sit in that garden bench. 
It is a dress,yes, but much more than a garment.
When my soul leaves my flesh, may she remember how she lived with her dress.
May she remember how she dressed it as a gift, how she handled it with care.
May she remember how every time she sat down, in that garden bench, in that theater seat ...she used to fly, relive and die.
 And be born again.
Today, my soul flew...but not away. 
Like a phoenix, She is back, happy...
...what more to expect?

Sophia Morna