It could be days, or weeks, or months
before they find that husk
with none to miss and none to pine
erased in form and memory
by way of biology and chemistry
a mass of rot, or as desiccated
as the salted heart that drove the
lesson home

There will be none to weep, none to mourn
none to raise a glass and tell jovial lies
none to cry themselves
to sleep over some wistful remembrance
or sense of desperate longing
buried, burned or abandoned; in dreamless sleep
as in the full light of the sun

There will be no wake, no misty-eyed
reminiscence and carefully wrapped tales
of fantasy or illusion
no marker to say that this is where
the lonely shell resides, where once was the writer
of love and light and longing
leaving only these words, and a few worldly goods
all of which are yours to do with as you please
and you too, will not grieve and lament
no tear will fall to your cheek, no sob
escape from your cherished lips
then as now, lost in your heart
like the fading remnants of a stifled dream

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