At My Funeral
They lowered the coffin like bait for worms.
Some were crying, some tried,
some had already cried.
Some were glad, some relieved,
some worried, some indifferent—
the rest were marking attendance.
The priest was miffed—
this death did not pay well;
his prayers came measured,
hurried where they mattered least.
He checked his watch mid-ritual,
his return ticket still unconfirmed,
another ceremony waiting—by evening, a marriage,
the groom from the gold mafia,
who paid in weight, not sentiment,
and buried their mistakes properly.
Candles came aplenty, but bouquets fell short;
parking wasn’t free—visitors complained.
The lamb was poorly skewered,
and gossip found its rhythm;
wine was opened while champagne stayed aside,
and the poet was drunk,
so the requiem never came.
Then came the speeches—
folded versions of me,
ironed of inconvenience.
They spoke of kindness as if constant,
of promise as if it had matured.
No one mentioned the unfinished,
the debts of habit, the small betrayals of self—
eulogies prefer completed men.
Near the edge, a man stood apart,
not grieving—calculating.
He had numbers where others had memories,
dates where others had faces.
He did not step forward,
but did not leave either.
Death triggered accounts.
Somewhere, signatures were remembered,
interest quietly resuming its work.
Inside, they spoke of legacy—
a word that softens division.
Drawers would be opened soon,
keys finding their locks,
names matched to portions.
Grief thinned into arithmetic—
who gets what, who deserved more,
who was always meant to be left out.
The cameraman appeared
only when the movie star arrived
(hiding his glycerine bottle).
They forced the drawer open,
where lay the will I unwillingly signed.
What remained of me was dust in the graveyard
and papers to fight over.
The flesh was never needed—
they let the worms have it.
My mirror doesn’t remember my face
The mirror wants my first face back.
It knocks from the inside.
Backstage smells like old rain
and wires losing faith.
The spotlight left mid-sentence,
a warm dog choosing knees.
It sleeps on other names now;
mine cools on a hook.
My suit keeps its applause—
dust claps when I move.
A poster peels my younger grin,
glue holding better than me.
I rehearse being recognized
in windows that refuse.
My name sticks to the rim,
a print no one claims.
Chairs remember my weight
longer than any crowd.
I drink the light in bottles,
cheap bulbs with no heat.
The mirror keeps him breathing:
unspent, untouchable.
It offers him for entry;
I pay with what I’m not.
Security scans my silence,
lets brighter ghosts pass.
Even the dark edits me,
cuts scenes I can’t keep.
The mirror waits for change—
I wait while it slowly forgets me.
The Poisoning of Alexander
I know you,
I have seen you lift souls
from the battlefields of my making,
you chose the wrong door tonight, though.
They’ve planned it all—
except this.
This cannot be my time.
Not yet.
I deserve a cleaner death—
on the battlefield,
when steel sang odes
to my conquests,
not trapped on a bed
counting pulses,
listening to the hush close in,
cursing the traitor
who held the chalice.
If I could buy time, you’d be rich.
Take your pick—
gold in coffers,
land stamped by my signet,
gems stuck in plundered rings,
flesh caged in harems—
I’d give it all away
for one more day
of that thunder and glory.
All of it—
useless against this quiet.
And yet—
when you finally find me,
come without force.
Come quiet.
Say—
the fight is done.
Take my hand,
not as a conqueror,
but as one who knows
how long I’ve carried this weight.
Tell me I have done enough.
Tell me there is silence ahead—
for enough is carved in stone
about the noise I made.