THE NOT-DEATH OF THE AUTHOR

It was the day
of my funeral.

And already I
was late.

"Com'on! Com'on!"
I told myself

eager not to miss
my own wake.

I still had an ounce or two
of living yet

and the onus was on me
to use it up.

There was still that
unfinished poem to finish.

But I couldn't
for the life of me

bring it about so that
I could be properly  dead.

"Com'on! Com'on!"
I begged the words.

But they weren't having
any of it.

I tinkered with
a syllable or two

but the words were
adamant...stayed schtum.

They pointed out that
they belonged to

a living poem
and if they were so to speak

to fall into place
at my behest

they would be actining
posthumously.

But they hadn't banked on]
the wiles of a dead man.

Didn't realise I had been
writing it all down.

And that their reluctance
to obey me

would do
very nicely thank you,

They felt they had been
betrayed...tricked.

And they refused
to attend my funeral.

Alas for me
I hadn't fullstop'd the poem

and am now obliged
to return in ghostly form

to do so
but all to no avail

as putting  a living full stop
is an impossible thing

for a ghost 
to do.

I can still hear
the words laughing.