Bury Me Not

Bury me not neath fragrant clover.
Not under the old oak tree.

Not down by the Black River,
where all my folks seem to be.

Where sometime in the future,
they will come to resurrect, to dissect,
every little part of me.

Where they will come to bring me back.
To a world I cannot now conceive,
and can't even dream of.

No, let me be as I am.
Cut me open like a clam,
and take my pearls of wisdom.

My heart, my lungs, my kidneys,
my corneas, my liver, my skin,
my very marrow and pass them on.

For they are in good condition,
though used, seen little wear.

They have a fine patina,
from years of gentle care.

The rest please give to science,
for spinal cord research.

A little forensic archaeology,
to find the cause I search.

Finally burn to ashes, dust to dust,
the remains of what I trust.

Cast to the winds as fertile food,
part of the universal must.

Feed more than just daisies
from my grave site thrust.

Grave Stone

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Copyright 2007 © Ronald W. Hull