Photo by Denny Müller on UnsplashWhat Remains
These poems are not art
They are burial instructions
I do not write them to be remembered
I write that I may be properly forgotten
Pay no attention to the falsehoods which comprise my eulogy
The pulpit was ever made for telling lies
Just know that I purchased these fictions at a bargain price
And burned the receipts in the furnace of the crematorium
Their ashes now mingle with my own
For flesh and bone burn almost as well as paper
But poetry burns best of all