When dead am I one cold day,
underground I’ll finally behave.
Into a box then earth it caves
around me and my stiffened face.
Though my body rots slowly gone,
they’ll be some memories or songs
that pass from a preacher’s charm
that find ears where they belong.
As color from the sky it disappears.
As the ground receives hurtful tears.
I will be exploring death so sincere,
oblivious to what once life revered.
My epitaph inputted won’t be
that what I take underground.
A hollow echo swallowed down;
on a headstone as if some crown.
Verbiage will fall from some lips.
Such exchanges in talks I’ll miss.
I will suffer in final hours from
moments when I didn’t forgive.
Even to wear red it won’t phase,
as in my eternal rest I do lay,
a festive song and laugh filled day
that I pray will be on full display.
I’m no sad tale anyone can tell
so don’t bring somber dark veils.
Don’t look down as if into a well.
For life to be lived is more a hell.
Don’t let my grave be a sad place
where I’ll be eventually to be erased
by the exploding sun in outer space;
find bliss in song around my grave.