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how will it look? the day i am dressed in my final suit. when the blood has been excavated from my veins and my heart beats no more. will people crowd within the church and speak praise on my name? or will the air reek with silence? will i have done everything i could have done or will i have just been another wasted chunk of skin? will they mourn? will they read this poem over the open casket that holds the skin that once held me? and will they sing?
oh, how i hope they will sing. how i hope they will remember me for the poems i wrote and fret not the poetry that will be buried within the skin of my fingertips. that thing in the casket you see, that is not me. it is only a shell of what i once was. i will not be dead in that casket. i will be alive inside the hearts of every person in attendance that day. i will be alive in the words they use to share their memories of me. i will live forever in this poem. so, go on. sing. and remember me for the poems i wrote and fret not the poetry that will be buried within the skin of my fingertips. |
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October 2020
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