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Click hereWho would be buried, north of
the Tropic of Cancer, to decompose
slowly in soft, slinky mud, under
rows of orderly headstones, well-
executed to last you a lifetime
by half-hearted mourners in grey
three-piece suits, all quite comme
il faut: straight ditches and gates and
trim flowers and a close-fisted sky?
I’d rather see my folk around me
dance and make a clamour at the pyre:
I’ll dwindle to a heap of greyish
fluffiness amidst the colours
of a southern clime. Don’t gather up
what’s left but leave my ashes
to the random winds. I will
be blown apart and scattered far
and wide, a handful of grey dust,
that slowly fades until it’s brought
to nothing by a sudden, forceful gust.
that was a brilliant observation, ashes
greyish fluffiness this is nice. counterintuitive, never saw a combo like that, but you do this too rarely
5ed
I like this poem. I agree with this speaker in his desire for a celebration of his life. My funeral plans include lots of singing and tambourine-playing and hand-clapping...like church, where I grew up. No mourning for me, please!
return ...but don't forgo those that care to wake you away to do so....
Regards , A9
If murder does' t kill you , Old age must !!!