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I'd rather not be tucked into a shroud
in the last gleam of the sun.
Boxed. Sealed.
Lowered to eternity.
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I'd rather let my bones turn into pumice,
more readily be dust unto dust.
Better a cliche'
to send my soul on its way.
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I'd compel my spirit
to soar as a ghost.
I don't have to be
with the risen just yet.
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I will hide in walls,
and as you pass
I'll be the peeling paint
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where sometimes you may see
a water mark that looks like me.
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Reduced, but present.
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