tired eyes

On the occasion of my death, how will I be remembered?
Will it be sobs and soaked handkerchiefs or will it be laughter
and heads shaking in collective acknowledgment
to the silly and completely ridiculous stories that will be told?
On the occasion of my death, how will I meet the one that will
usher me through the crossroads of this life and the next?
Will it be with a bang, with a silent whimper, or with my forehead
to the clouds a grin upon my fading mouth and my hand reaching
out first to take his hand before he asks for mine?
Will it be painful, will it hurt, will I scream for it to be over
or will I, pushing through frozen bits of frozen moments,
understand the reason for the pain and the explanation behind
the hurt and instead turn and bask in it, the final sensation
this skin and these bones will ever feel this beautiful lap
through a breathtaking life.
On the occasion of my death, what will be the weather on the instant
and dizzying transition into the occasion of my rebirth?
Will I enter through a storm or through the gentle breeze of
a sunny day? Will the rain drops be my baptism and will my first
scream be only the echo of my last scream in the flesh I used to
wear, and wear proudly?
On the occasion of my death, will the explosion be felt across the
planet or will it be the single falling star spied by a single
lonely soul sitting on the roof of some creaking house in the
cool early Autumn night? Will they feel me flicker and fade
and burst back into glowing life or will I just fall into line
as the next star in a crowd of many that will make up some
constellation?
Will sailors guide themselves by me, will two young souls
freshly in love wish upon me when I come out while the blue
still hangs in the sky and will I feel those wishes?
On the occasion of my death, what will become of all that was?
What will become of all I was to be
on the occasion of my death?