When you would be dead,
There would be new flowers at your door,
Time would not stop, The soul would
stop begging.

No one would speak, Pity would bathe,
like troubled twin babies.

You would be dead, the message from lights,
stills from photos, so many things.
Dying Young, wrapped and covered, boxed,
and released.

You would be dying,
Like the slow soft treble of leaves,
at a summer's night. The Forests, The clouds,
The half eyed moon, would stop begging.

You would be dying, dying like the river,
traveling again in a realm of strange colors.

Where is the music of The sunsets? The glowing flowing-
Youth?
The delicacy, The purple hazed yellow sky?

Trust me, someday you would die.
Time would stop, souls would stop begging-
wrapped, boxed, released.