Props at My Funeral
While I sleep
throw ropes down my mouth.
Climb in -
But beware of the biting words
that linger along the throat.
They are bitter, always questioning
When you reach a path lit by embers
Grab your cross, and hold it tight.
There, bits of heart decompose along the turn.
You should cover your head, for it drips still
off the ribs
of a splat-
You may even see her against the starless dark.
A ghostly angel playing the loose string
of a smashed violin . . .
(It is true: sometimes the old sounds are deafening
and you can't hear the new ones)
But I digress.
Follow the map that I gave you
and gather the props as you go:
The rusty crown.
The bloody pile of nightingale feathers.
The broken teeth of one genuine smile.
And don't forget the dried up pen and quill.
I should remind you now
to leave by morning,
for tomorrow I will sit at the edge of the world.
There I will smile into the rising sun
and without a thought
(First published at Poetry Super Highway)
Naturalist, poet and writer Jason Sturner was born and raised in
Chicago. For ten years he worked as a botanist. He now resides in
Knoxville, Tennessee, where he enjoys the wildlife, folklore and
music of the region. Sturner has published four books of poetry (all
available as free downloads; see website). In addition to poetry he
writes flash fiction, short stories, music lyrics and nature essays.
His website is www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com