A bottle of ash

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My works are like, leaves of a tree in autumn

Waiting to be carried to it’s grave.

Waiting to be carried by the air

To go the places, it has seen.

Carry them to a pile of other leaves

Where it’ll be burned later on

And those ashes I’ll wear on my face.

My face shall resemble a dead women’s then,

All words marks and no feelings

With wrinkles not beautiful like leaves veins,

Neither parallel nor reticulate.

But maybe like roots

That never found water.

Water not my words, while at death bed

And not burry us, while we both die.

Rather burn us and collect those ashes

In a discarded bottle and keep it safe, openly

For another dead woman, to find it,

Reach her hands into it and

Wear those ashes on her face.

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