Don’t stand around my grave and weep,
Compressing the earth beneath your feet,
Red eyed, mumbling in your moans,
Searching for means to atone;
For in life you fled my eye,
Your talk , a jumble of planted lies,
Avoiding my voice at any cost,
So that all sense of meaning was soon lost;
Now I lay beneath your feet,
You have the freedom to be indiscreet,
To use my headstone as a pulpit
To name me as the only culprit;
For in my voice were barbs of truth,
That you avoided in your youth;
Now that my silence is assured,
Your thoughts more scrambled and more labored
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