I am a fighter,
a scarred warrior
in battles unnamed
and wars unknown,
but in which all must fight
else in oblivion vanish.
I fight the grave
with word and deed,
planting a small seed
while I am still wet.
Soon I’ll be dead,
rotting in flesh,
fading from living memory,
all the while germinating,
growing forth from the grave
to have my final say
right on death’s face,
“You can’t handle me, loser!”
Dry bones will speak,
in a tiny graveside whisper,
of the legacy I now seek.
Dry bones will sing,
and in some literary corner
my praises will ring.
Dry bones will testify,
my dedication to purpose
’til the inevitable last sigh.
Dry bones will lay content,
in peace wait on eternity,
so their reward they can collect.
Dry bones will be dry,
but not so their essence
for I watered ’em while I lived.


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