I die

Poem

Photo by Mr Xerty on Unsplash (edited)

I've been sad 

feeling like a helper on the day I die
getting the wood if they burn me
getting the shovel if they burry me

between people or on a secluded road
depending on the kind
murder, nature, or suicide

or in a boat where cannibalism got the weakest
where I did the cutting with a shard of ice
lay my meat in the sun to cook

silent work

just mutters of words
attempts of which went out
like a match in a rain

on the day I die, if the sun shines
give me a curtain and get a watering can
disguise the day to be cloudy

I wonder, was I worth a cup of coffee
a few days of grief
as it ended with people who can’t feel

hide, a soft whisper

in the body's ears
then dragged it to 
the alcoves of hidden rooms

caught up in life
where the only peace is around
a dead body

born
[something]
die

pre-defined structures
where suffering counts
pleasure doesn’t

get to non-existing,
but I'm shy,
hesitant

on the day
I hide then gather courage
to be a helper

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