Here lies he,

Whose dreams have been extinguished by the lack of air six feet under,

Who will be dead much longer than he was alive,

Who isn’t resting in peace, for there is no such thing in eternal oblivion.

As the seasons weather his tomb with rain, sun, snow, tears, autumn leaves and moss,

He has no use for metaphor, euphemism and poetry now, than when he was alive.




#On the 2nd of November ‘All souls day’: I used the occasion to explore the Mexican tradition of writing ‘Calaveritas Literarias’, even got traditional bread or pan de muerto from a Mexican bakery (it was after all dia de los muertos) and tried my hand at epitaphs, as in the Christian tradition.