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.
©16/04/19 The Rendezvous Club
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