closings iv

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