When I’m done with this place ,
Don’t give my body to science.
Give it to poetry.
Muscle , tendon and nerve,
Are same in me as in everyone.
But not my words, so sparing, so different.
I want my words dissected,
My dark corners resected.
I do not want to lie, in formaldehyde.
When that grand anatomist of souls,
Finds vestiges of hope in my bones,
Cluttered with the melancholy beauty of an unwritten verse.
When he finally reads in the crimson of my blood,
The verses I stole from a hundred setting suns,
Orange , red and scarlet verses dissolved in the crimson of blood.
They must know as they count the last of my ribs,
I too had a story to tell.I too was a poem that was never read.