I gather dirt on my skin,

My skin, that once served a body deserving of life,

Finds itself a victim of time,

It’s way past its prime.

Worms seep through my pores

,And tear apart the knits of my decaying frame,

Mud makes it way through,It prepares for life a new.Life,

I had known well,

But how well I lived,

was for fate to tell.

What once wreathed in sweet perfume,

What value does now my putrid body hold?

Have I lived enough now that I’ve grown old?

How will I be written about?

Will you write of this shell that welds with the ground?

Or will you count me in lives traversed,

Values imbued,Empty hours— The words I’ve brewed?

Will you remember me as a spectrum,

As concepts defined over and over again?

I’ve been to you the warmest star,

I’ve been the piercing rain.

I gather tiny grass on my arms,

My arms that once consoled you in taxing times,

Become home to tiny bugs and flies.

I find solace in my fruitful demise.

When no longer am I seen by the sun,

And the earth has consumed me whole,

I hope pink carnations grow,

I hope pink carnations grow.