Dead White Men

The pages of poetry and prose, So carefully and considerately composed. A response to the voice inside of me that Whispers in a manner incoherent. I am listening, because there is not much else to be. I can guarantee I will die unworthy And leaving no legacy but a beautiful corpse. There was a time when I Would give you this book of my verse Some pages of open confession Not be loved or adored, not to be suddenly understood By myself or by this or the next generation. Prestige in this current lifetime is a pipedream at best. This is the legacy I follow against my will, the hallowed Halls of deaf redeemers like the casket laying empty Slowly approaching at a glacial crawl. One day my name and my Obituary will assert my solidarity With the dirt. To the earth I will go with all these prayers My heart ‘neath my ribcage Below this empty vessel The soul departed somewhere. I leave you maxilla and tines. Or whatever else remains behind. A petulant allowance to be Engraved upon the crypts In the most appropriate narrative, Bereft of the truth in our histories Given rather to fits of hysterics And a careful, considerate lyric.