Walk Slowly At My Burial - Poem by Leslie Philibert
Take the pace out of step,
the black beetle crunches over gravel,
a block of ice, stupid silence
carried like a china cup
nearly down, a ring of flowers,
the first prize packed like a gift;
six strong men are needed to carry
my boxed bag of bones,
flaps of skin and the old-man smell.
Hold on. A moth in a lampshade
couldn`t bruise its wings less;
scared of the fall into cold loam.
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