She promised me poetry on my grave.

Or at the very least, to try and behave.

 

And as she stood there in the rain she made good.

I write my own poetry on a piece of wood.

 

Time yet not for a bed of dirt.

her words only echo they do not hurt.

 

Sifting through these ashes I found the words,

Bringing to page the largest of birds.

 

In my noblest of efforts to think ahead of my pen.

My thoughts drift back to her again.