Thursday, 18 September 2014

Bury me Standing

When I die bury me standing; don’t lay me flat,
stretched out on my back, stand me straight,
plant me upright, plant me like a tree, bury me
with dignity. I’ll be dead for an eternity so stand me
don’t lay me flat, like meat on a cold, hard slab
waiting for butcher Fate, with his bloodied apron
to slice me asunder. Stand me up, push my lips
into a grin, stick a quill in my hand, paper in the other;
let me stand facing sunrise with a thousand new poems
to capture. When I die don’t listen to the undertaker —
drop me vertically; let me face the future as if
I was in the wings waiting for my cue to re-enter.

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