When the day comes
and I cross the Styx,
cover me with ashes of
my crumpled
unvarnished poems,
let them float like whispers
sinking onto the eyes
making them bleed the unshed;
Lay me gently
inside the soft loamy soil
with my unfinished metaphors
and when flowers bloom
over my grave
gather them with your
unsung echoes and
press them in your books
bruising the pages red and blue;
Underline my unsaid words
in between the blank spacings
of those dried petals,
learn them by heart and
sing along with the birds.
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