Epitaphonomy

He made it through life

Poor man, without any

Mistakes, poor soul, and died

With all his wits about him,

Poor man, with no one

Left alive, poor soul, to see.

I placed him in the ground,

Poor man, and planted

All my mistakes, poor soul, above.

I brought tour busses full myself,

Poor man, to see the flowering

Cenotaph, poor souls like me,

Who believed ourselves indebted

To him, poor man, who taught us

How to vanish, poor soul, sans anything

Like a substantive regret. His bones

Poor man, evaporated in his ashes

But his shape, poor soul, remains,

A testimony to the grace of vanishing

Away from a guilt-obsessed species, poor men,

Toward pure soul, blameless, in the end.