Three days after I have died, I will wake up.
Like the sun at the end of night.
I will paint a poem of divided light.
Somewhere in some place’s morning sky.
It will have my signature.
My fleeting nature.
Crows will fly nearby.
And everyone who loved me in life will know to continue.
Only the one who dared me to write will have ended.
Out of his garden tilled heart, new life.
Blue light. Orange framed and black tinged.
It always was in all ways all about him.
Restless. Guessless. Never bested. Eternal tested.
Three days after he loses any hand ever used to hold a pen,
he will wake up without an eye to open,
and put down his last earth poem.
Before moving on to the other side of the universe,
where there are newborn worlds,
dying just to get to know him.