Unto Ruin

Sometimes I think about my funeral.

Not in a morbid, gruesome way.

But I think of the flowers in my hair,

The stillness to my chest, no rise no fall,

No empires to conquer anymore.

Of the pyre, and it’s tremendous, unbearable burning,

Finally bringing warmth to my perpetually cold fingers.

Of the coffin, lacquered and nailed shut,

And me, entombed in this ornate casket, for eternity.

Of the friends, who arrive with weak steps,

And watch me belong to history, as one must.

Of the ashes, swirling away into some water body,

Flowing through the city gutters, is this purification?

Or the vase they’d be in, the vase I’d be in,

High up on a shelf, to be dusted only ever so often.

Of the grave, that you could come see me at,

The flowers you’d bring, the books you could read aloud.

But would I know if no one visited me?

Of the headstone, “here lies a girl,

who died wondering what this would say,

wondering if the mark she left on this world,

would be engraved into stone, wondering if it was enough?”

On a lighter note,

I think of the music that I’d like to have played.

Maybe some Britney? Or would Toxic be a little much?

I’d think it would be funny.

We could all do with a little laughter that day.

Sometimes I think about my funeral,

Of the candles, the eulogies, the tears,

Of the shaking in the voices,

Of the priest at an atheist’s funeral,

The last rites, the goodbyes,

The mourning, the consoling,

The coroner, the autopsy report,

The will I never bothered to write.

My parents, my best friend…

You.

Did you cry? Did you wish it to not be real,

For it to be a nightmare?

Or did you sigh heavily, and walk away?

Sometimes I think about my funeral.

Not in a morbid, gruesome way, of course,

I just think, rather simply, of how I died,

If it was natural, did I pass quietly in my sleep?

Did I jump, drown, crash, run, fight or just…go?

Did I beg for mercy?

What was I thinking of in my final moments?

Was I aware those were my final moments?

Did I thank the people I needed too thank?

Did I say the things I’ve bottled up for years?

Did I have time?

Where do I go after this?

Do I belong there?

Did I belong here?

Sometimes,

I think about my funeral.

I hope there’s cake.

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3 thoughts on “Unto Ruin

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