Who 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.

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bydemure101© 7 comments/ 2428 views/ 5 favorites

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