Bequeather

Throat is the road to nothing,
The pathway life cut for breath.

Everything comes to nothing,
Nothing calls everything home,

And papyrus will decay
In two centuries or less,

So here, this is yours, have this.
Take this body and cut it,

Lovingly dissect these lines
And cut these words to pieces.

These throats no longer draw breath.
They might as well never had,

Might as well have been left blank
As crumble in codices.

Oh no, no one likes reading
Anatomy anymore

Who isn’t interested in
Crimes of disintegration.