Incineration; it is his living wish.
The urn will be a plain oblong box,
He will be boxed.
The wooden package will be sent
as only a temporary accommodation,
not a place of rest or peace,
but something to be kept until poured.
This pouring will be an on-going
one taken up by a river
for carrying.
The current will winnow and permeate
sift and sieve,
fish will be his filtrate,
the river rocks a million headstones
that will grind his dust finer
until the water itself eats it.
Then the empty box will be filled
with saffron, sandalwood flakes,
and dried mothwings,
be taken back,
back into the flames
to be a thin ascending signal
of smoke
so insubstantial
that it will be no more than
a dissolving question
in an un-answering
sky.
A wispy waymark
just light enough
to ride upon the ever breathing
breath of the wind, and
always moving onward unseen.
Categories:
filtrate, poetry,
Form: Free verse
The dirt does not give into words.
Blind-less in tongue and heart,
I have dropped myself in the earth.
Dark eyes wrapped in cloth,
Tilted clouds narrow my sight.
Spiral down fellow pride follows,
Relieving fires flame of it's light.
Tonight silent is the color.
And the wind is what I wear.
Tomorrow is what we desire,
Dropping the past skin and years.
Aggravation the deepness unaware-for a fee.
Quivering stories holding the once better-left debris.
Filtrate the deafening lies we're forced to breathe-sounds of fear.
You crack the glass we all feel to sing-mixed to share.
Digging farther to find what I've left behind-beyond what's here.
Categories:
filtrate,
Form: I do not know?