when death comes
I’ll need not love –
consumed ,
no wreath or dove
could offer me salvation ,
not when I’m no more .

a weathered stone will bear my name –
identity of once a being
living out existence in
a world of risk , and never seeing
sense of why we’re here .

my genes will die away through child –
hue of eyes and hair , the way of thought ,
will quickly dim with generation –
bow to future dominance –
memories of provenance
resigned to curious few .

when death comes
I’ll need not grace
below ; no grieving face
will call my resurrection,
not when I’m at ground –