The haze of this maze,
Sets me ablaze,
While the phase of the praise,
Lost their ways,
Now my gaze turns to new days,
And new ways.

Every poet is an old soul
with the remarkable talent
of carrying the centuries
of all poets' legacies
with just a pen
and a piece
of paper.

The life of a poet lives on
through all their poems,
but the day I do depart,
I want to be cremated.

I will entrust family
and some fellow poets
to let my ashes sink
into some deep black ink.
And I'd want them to write
the stanzas I secretly saved
just for the occasion.

That way
they can say
that I put
all my heart
and my body
into poetry.
Literally.

My soul,
on the other hand,
would live on happily
as an eternal poet
having fun rhyming
while everyone's crying.
(and I'd wish they'd stop.)