When the day comes
that Death makes his
dreaded march
to take me away,
I have
but one
humble request.
My spirit will have transcended
even the stars,
my mind lost
to the Great Expanse
of Time,
so it is only fitting
that my body be purged
by righteous flame.
My ashes,
once purified,
shall be split;
half will be mixed
to grow
a colossal tree,
emerald boughs
blowing in the summer wind,
with thick,
soaking the the Light
of the Sun
once more.
After reaching maturity,
I ask that it be cut down
just as my body had been,
years before,
so that from its regal form
can be made countless pages.
The other half
of my ancient husk
I ask be ground into
a fine powder,
and from it
produce an ink,
black as midnight
and yet,
but a trace
of the opalescent glow
of our Moon,
with which to write
how much
I loved her.
And if all goes well,
this love
will echo throughout
the halls of time
for all eternity,
beckoning those
from all walks of life
to know a love
like hers.



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