The murmurs of the wind through the trees will be my requiem,  

And the distant birdsong my eulogy.  

Decaying fragments of my body will plunge into the soil,  

Spindly roots winding down towards the earth’s core. 

My eyes, shielded in gold, 

Will not guide me down the River Styx, 

But instead keep me present, 

For God is not the creator of man, 

But man is the creator of God, 

And all hope was abandoned 

Well before Charon made the final call. 

 

Disembowelled, 

Intestines will claw over me,  

Snaking around my throat. 

Worms, fingers severed at the knuckle, 

Gnawing through skin and hair. 

My arm, a branch, oak coiling around my limb, 

Will reach for the ones I adore most, 

And thorny stems will lurch out of my chest,  

Searching for the familiar weight  

Of a loved one’s embrace.  

 

At last, the whispers of tranquillity will  

Unclench my withered fists. 

A mossy smile will settle on my face 

In silent commemoration, 

And my heart will lie out of its pit, 

A fragrant bouquet of roses. 

 

The twittering chorus, no longer a lamentation, 

Calls out: 

“You will never ascend! You will only wither away!” 

I will fade gracefully, 

Without gates or wings. 

‘Forever’ stings like an unkept promise, 

‘Forever’ is the memory left behind.  

I come forth, twenty-one grams lighter, 

Yet heavier than the bells that signalled my departure.