Dont need Your Tribute

When I die
cut the flowers
don 't paint anguish
with pretty language;
I won't rise from the grave
to read odes in the same lips
that used to mimic
the kiss that delivered Christ
to the cruel hands of Calvary.
¤
When the sun resigns to bed
behind the moon 's cold quarters,
quit praying for the night
to sleep tight
or for the day
to break soon.
Even the sky runs out
of blue robes
and needs to borrow splendor
from stardusts.
¤
I shall die
before you realize
I am more than an ache
in your belly
I am
the curve on your lips
the heart in your chest
the light in your eyes
the song in your larynx.
¤
Did we love?
Yes , we did more than loved .
We worshipped deities
carved on our flesh ,
hugged deformities
that burdened our souls
but faith never flowered
in this religion ,
vows only turned
to broken vessels
for we were too afraid
to confess we 're guilty
of loving more than the skin,
that our inner layers stay
married
after our lips broke their
covenant
and hips pretended to sway
in separate ways.
¤
Yes , I am doomed to die
before your mouth pours out
molasses
and recites the poem
tied to your tongue ,
begging
dying
waiting
everyday
to be released
to be given
perhaps a shape , tone, or rhythm.
Alas, you do not have
the guts of a poet!