i’m more book than human
i’m songs and stories stitched together
with the autumn leaves
you stuffed in my pockets on walks
i’m the strum of a guitar
played along side the flute
my pages filled with symphonies
the words of revolutionists
is in the leather of my spine
you pressed flowers between my pages
wrote ghost stories in your sprawling script
I said i dont want carefully chosen flowers at my grave
i’d rather a hastily picked daisy
you saw on the walk to me
a letter in hand
to deliver your words to my decaying body
i still have grass stains from when my pages
were pressed to the dirt
mud on my cover
3 years gone to waste
music that will never be played once the notes are dirtied
and the strings broken
and the valves stuck
i’m the ghost of a story i told years ago
when i made daisy crowns
and hung the leaves i found in my pockets from my bedroom ceiling
reading to you the words of revolutionaries
as we prepared to take on the world