my last

box me up in
your finest oakwood
lock the latch so
the things that should
stay unbothered will sink
from my bones into the
soil, during the next
rain, they’ll grow and
haunt the stones, rivers
mountains and lakes with
the echoes of words you
won’t ever get to take
from me, even after
i’m gone – i’d rather
be the hum on
another ghost’s tongue
than be, some song
you once would have
sung indifferently

__
written by Tiny Fawns for daily prompt: soil

3 responses to my last

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