Mort

A chosen final resting home

Decomposing flesh somewhere secret
Where ribs have become a latter
For the wild roses to climb
Accompanied by the ivy vines
Baby's breath and aromatic thyme

No soil covering like that of a duvet
Fully exposed yellow green and gray
Sun-dried freshly plucked from life
Crown of flowers sitting crooked
Lips curved as if they were smirking

Because I made you promise me
When oxygen escaped me forever
To drape me amongst the fauna
In the exact location that you whispered
"I wish you were f*****g dead"