The dead are calm for a while
In complete stillness immediately after death
Whether lying at rest or contorted in pain at that last moment
Matters not
The dead are calm 
As they anticipate the gathering of themselves for the final stage
When the very very last tiny surge of remaining energy is harnessed 
Every wisp of spirit every tendril of soul every puff of being has to be marshalled together from all the distant peripheries
Centralised into a quiet holding pattern 
Somewhere deep within the dead heart

And stilled
This is necessary to ensure nothing is missed
Not a dream, not a belief, not a skerrick of moral fibre not an essence of being
It all has to be there

In one place quieted settled and at peace
Before the final ascent
Where a last breath of essence is expired into the void
Up through the chest
Into the nose and mouth
And outward to mix with the other floating souls 
That make up the ethereal worlds around us 
That quiet calm puff of elemental existence 
Dissipates into nonentity
As a becoming of everything once more
It serves the purpose of unity
Without serving any purpose at all