Peace in a Ritual

When i am dead, allow my family the peace of a ritual.

Do not hold off on arcana for the sake of my broken spirit,

I am a Godless heathen, sure, but my family deserves comfort

So in the time of my passing, offer them the process of

Mourning my death not as determined by my living belief,

But by what it is that defines comfort to them.

voices conjured on a quiet walk

If you happen upon a strangers hand,
Left astride it's havers hips
astride your own,
(the familiar two that belong to you)
If they find you in a brush of static
That reminds both hands
that they belong
To a working, feeling body;
If in the hustle of a cross town bustle
You catch the eye of a fellow passing-er
(Someone you've no chance to
Catch the eye of ever
everevereverever
again);
If your barking dogs take you so far
Far from the door that you call yours
That you're all the way
To the cross-town library
And a baby-girl scholar bounces past
(Book in hand and feeling grand)
To her mothers side in a rush of noise...

Smile.