Recycled Soul

Find wolves gnawing
on your bones,
doves flying by your tomb,
where the grass is growing
through your nose,
and the gravekeeper sprays you
with a garden hose.

All those things you swore to do
in the short years that you knew
are carved upon a stone,
with a dozen words at most.

When the time came to exist,
and your lifeís catalyst
was borne unto your youth,
I hope you choose to live it
Through, and through;

for when you rot under the ground,
and all of those around you
hope that you are cozy
in heavenís fantasy.

And all that you will know
at rest will be the mold
that you become,
and all that you will know
at rest will be the mold
of your recycled soul.

Find peace in whatever creed
youíre born into,
and breathe
the fiction that it holds,
if it makes this life more whole,
and bearable,

but donít hold back
from living here,
itís all thatís guaranteed:
the marvel of your being.
Salvation comes from epic eulogies.

One more thing,
my dying friend,
in case this is the end,
Iíve loved you even though
your faith it was a hoax
all along.

Love me,
even if to you
my soul forever looms
in hellís immortal vault.
Donít you know
itís not my fault?