I do not know how she lived,
Nor how she came to die.
Was she fair, or strong as iron
I cannot say but I

Stand above her, pondering her history.

Caroline. Buried lovingly,
Under tombstone of ivory
Now here she lay, to rest a day
Covered in tangled ivy.

The land taking claim of the cemetery.

My Epitaph
by Michael R. Burch

Do not weep for me, when I am gone.
I lived, and ate my fill, and gorged on life.
You will not find beneath this glossy stone
the man who sowed and reaped and gathered days
like flowers, well aware they would not keep.
Go lightly then, and leave me to my sleep.

Keywords/Tags: epitaph, epigram, death, grave, stone, marker, nameplate, tombstone, inscription, life, days, flowers, sleep

grave request
by Michael R. Burch

come to ur doom
in Tombstone;

the stars stark and chill
over Boot Hill

care nothing for ur desire;

still,

imagine they wish u no ill,
that u burn with the same antique fire;

for there’s nothing to life but the thrill
of living until u expire;
so come, spend ur last hardearned bill
on Tombstone.

Keywords/Tags: Tombstone, Boot Hill, grave, headstone, death, doom, graveyard, morgue, final, payment, resting place

these old wounds that mar my skin
etched into the memory of myself
these bodies have memories
and if mine were made into a movie
it would be one hell of a horror story

i was raised in a nice home with good parents
and plenty of food for me to eat
and plenty of clothes for me to wear
so why do i bear these scars

i have an incredible support line
people who love and care about me
even my co-workers see that
why can't I?

if our happiness was determined by our support system
then i would be the happiest ******* person on the planet

my tombstone will read:

took so much
gave so little

gone so soon
but not soon enough

It is your childhood bestie on Facebook,
Miles away,
Yet just a tap away.
It's the sun shining from behind the clouds
On December mornings
While you work your *** off on your laptop
In bed in your 4-BHK apartment.
It is the soap bubble that bursts
Just with your one glance
Because memories are fragile.
They aren't made of hearts of stone
And kinetic sand.
They're made of soft toys
And fur animals.
Nostalgia is the balloon-seller you whizz by
At the traffic signal
Every morning.
It is the sweetness of strawberries
That falls drop by drop,
on your tongue,
That has forgotten to taste.
It is a subtle symphony that coffee plays
That only you can smell
Every evening.
It is the obedient smile that dances on your lips for a while
But fades away
As the smoke of dead habits take over.
It the closed window behind the curtains,
The forgotten post-its on the fridge,
The giggles trapped shut in between the pages of ******,
It is the withered rose on the tombstone
And the eulogy never spoken.
It is a teary-eyed laughter
In vacuum.
It is happy faces
In a photo frame.
It is the dictionary in a sentence,
Not something that can fit into a stance.

even love, a faded meaning
the uneven skill; bludgeoning the compass
a longing, a thirst for fortress in the prodigal past
always seems to swim so shallow

an even meaning when roses die
a shadow walking ground, a skeleton in the earth
leaning on its symbiotic ecstasy;
frail and ephemeral dipped in a sea of ash  

when paradise keel's over in sea
awake in this lucid dream
let loose of the pipe
lest you breath as love

a silent lips for astrologers, even a tombstone for gazers
blood streaming down the crown;
never to grow rose
love is the soil.

The green field I used to frolic and play
Now shrouded in darken clouds greyed
With soil planted with nothing but graves
Vine and stone tablets with epitaphs engraved