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  • Vesuvius

    One day, after I am gone
    Someone will sweep up my dusty bones.
    Sift through my ashes
    And try to see who I once was.

    Like the victim of a natural disaster
    From so long ago.

    Among the volcanic dust and littered rocks,
    What tale will I have to tell?

    My long days of boredom.
    My chasing after ghosts.
    My pining for lost loves.
    The wishing on stars.

    Like T.S.'s Prufrock, standing at the top of the stairs.
    Afraid to open his mouth.
    How do I begin?

    A life spent waiting for trains.
    Watching the empty track and wondering
    If I could stretch across the world.
    Just wanting to be moving,
    Gone.
    Feeling the wooden sleepers beneath me.

    A legacy of apathy.
    I would pass on.
    A purpose not served.
    Forgotten.

    And holding up my skull like
    Some poorly acted student scene
    Of Shakespeare,
    There would be no sorrow.

    When everyone you know is gone and everyone they knew is gone
    And there is nothing left to hold you to the earth
    There is nothing left to lose.

    Please, scatter my ashes and save my plot of burial land for a fruit tree.
    Give my head to science and use my hands for fly swatters.
    Encase my lower jaw in glass and let it sit in dust filled quiet churches like the finger of a saint,

    Or make a necklace of my teeth and say I died a noble death.

    All of my silly ramblings
    All of my selfish writings
    All of my nights of wishing
    Will amount to this,

    Brittle small black letters on stark white paper,
    Or maybe soft sounds spoken in a quiet room,
    Fogging a pane of glass and showing that somewhere, somehow,
    I lived.
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