rhyme

Year’s End

I have no time for churchyards
nor plots among the blooms
clothe my bones not in the earth
and seek no marble tomb
when winter breathes his last on me
and his icy fingers draw
away from clay, the rest of me
I’ll need this dust no more
so set me on a long ship
and push me out to sea
that I may sail away aflame
in to eternity.