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Literature Text
When I die,
I don't want to be buried
I want you to spread my ashes
Across the wind,
Across the world,
And mix me up
With the shadows of the earth.
Then mix me up -
With the particles
And notions and memories
Of my forgotten life,
That is no longer
Anything more than dust.
And When I die
Because we all must die.
Though people try
To hide from it
And bury the fact
In the back of their minds
Because if they thought
That they might die today
It might impair them
From being able live.
So, when I die,
Don't bury me in the ground,
With my body still intact,
And dressed up in some fancy gown
With nowhere else to go.
Don't let me rot
In some box,
Separated from the earth,
From my home,
From where I came from
And where I am destined to go.
I don't want to be buried
I want you to spread my ashes
Across the wind,
Across the world,
And mix me up
With the shadows of the earth.
Then mix me up -
With the particles
And notions and memories
Of my forgotten life,
That is no longer
Anything more than dust.
And When I die
Because we all must die.
Though people try
To hide from it
And bury the fact
In the back of their minds
Because if they thought
That they might die today
It might impair them
From being able live.
So, when I die,
Don't bury me in the ground,
With my body still intact,
And dressed up in some fancy gown
With nowhere else to go.
Don't let me rot
In some box,
Separated from the earth,
From my home,
From where I came from
And where I am destined to go.
Literature
I Wish I Could Speak French
I wish I could speak French so I could talk freely with our Northern Neighbors. So I could laugh with the leather-clad man with proud lips and a pin-stripe beard as his fingers made a net for his stomach to contain the flood of joy. Instead of merely 'oui' or 'non' or a bewildered 'je ne sais quoi' or a curious 'l'ananas?' None of these promote conversation, around which their exotic culture revolves. I wish I could speak French so I could roam the Alps and the moist sandy avenues under le soleil et les nuages. So I could understand the fanciful names on street signs and posters in the Louvre.
Literature
Tell me how
Tell me how
you can cause me
to turn red at a single phrase
Tell me how
you can cause me
to even forget my name.
Tell me how
you can cause me
to trip over my words
Tell me how
you can cause my
heart to be stirred.
Tell me how.
Because m'dear
Literature
Quiet
One day
I woke up to the sound of breaking.
The fire was outside my window
And the smoke streamed in over my head
And the sirens, oh, the sirens
The red and the blue and the red reflected
On grey and black and grey and death.
I thought about how my heart
Had ached and my lungs had burned
And I closed my eyes.
One day
I woke up to the sound of stillness.
The needle sunk in my wrist
And the blurriness clouded my vision
And the beeping, oh, the beeping
The red and the black and the red smeared across
The white and grey and white and nothing.
I thought about how my mind
Had ran and my muscles had atrophied
And I closed my eyes.
One day
I woke
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