Longer ago than I care to remember; my English Professor once said that the hardest thing an aspiring poet can write is his ... or her own eulogy. (Without making the readers reach for a sick-bag.) So; even though I have no intention of dropping off the perch for a considerable time, as yet; here's mine...
When I am gone, weep not for me; but raise a glass; be of good cheer. No morbid dirge... no unctuous priest who means no single word he speaks. For, I am never really lost... not whilst my words and thoughts lie here; and, I would see the Ladies smile... not waste their tears upon their cheeks.
Lady Love has smiled on me as we have danced among the stars; for She has let me keep the dream of Love... and how it ought to be. No trail of Broken hearts; though I have loved, and lost... no hurt to mar the dream, and that... perhaps, is why this is my style of poetry.
All I would ask... Six feet of Mother Earth where I might peaceful, sleep; no Oaken coffin... pretty casket; just a simple winding sheet. The swifter, to return into her arms... our covenant to keep; Earth to Earth... indeed, the last, Great Adventure I will meet.
And so, perhaps, a Marker Stone with simple words... nothing sublime: He strove to bring a gentle smile... and, He could weave a pretty rhyme.