Parting wishes of a Taphophile

Whether it be many a winter hence or afore dawn’s next advent,
My rose once in bloom must wither too, at a time not of my bidding.
No matter mine end I do meet, by ire’s hand or idyllic sleep

Prithee, compose no poesy on my account or verses of ruth,
May my days be penned in meekness, temperance and sooth.
Light not a candle or the censer to burn,
For my torch, For my torch, is already upturned
Construct no monoliths, statuary, or bust to venerate
My columns lies a broken, and can bear none such weight.

Festoon my tomb not with pall, crepe, or such like gloom.
I shant be there to care or abjure,
Though may providence grant, though may providence grant, my deeds endure.
I say, if dust be my destiny, may these words, may these wishes, now and forevermore be my legacy.

Rather a simple stone wilt do, testament to a hale mason’s labours.
Deft of chisel,
and ring of a hammer true.

With Ivy circled ‘round for the fellowships dear
A glass with a few grains yet to fall, so that passersby’s
may give mind, rather than tear.


One final desire that I fain be granted, this above all else
May Hands clasped adorn that stone, eternally bound unto themselves.

While etched in relief
Shalt be,
Sin qua non
in grand flourishe and seriphs

For the love of mine life,
Nay love in life,
‘tis better than woe and grief.