Just compose a poem of death,
With only a few moving parts,
Another rhyme of fits and starts,
Long enough for my last breath.
A place of rest and short epitaph,
No real need for heaviness,
Just bring the soul to readiness,
With the lightness of a last laugh.
A landing place for the butterfly,
Looking behind the old worn shell,
Like the stories sages tell,
Truth can lightly hover by.
A quick change, a transformation,
To add the meaning in a trance,
So clear the rhythm of this dance,
Joining the predicted revelation.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.