is this all that's left of me
when I die?
pages of thoughts
wishes and dreams
and not many actions
sparkling warm eyes with long lashes,
dancing fingers
and sweet-strained song
and bursting laughter -
they don't last long
underground
boxes of stuff that
I never used all that much
and are probably heavier
than the box that holds me
let's make a pyre instead
a snow-white, blue-lined bed
lay me on it and light her up
let's watch that beauty burn
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