When i die

when i die
i do not choose
whether my coffin is made
of coconut planks
or metal casing
i cannot choose but only those
who mourn for me
if they ever will
shall choose what they think
must fit me: the color and size
of my niche
whether flowers be skipped
or snacks be served
or blessing be made
i do not choose: what epitaphs
must they write
or sculpt on marble
or gold

i cannot choose what funeral rites
shall be
what church? who the priest shall be
that sprinkle water
over me?

in truth i do not care
for by then i cannot feel
in fact
what they have
in truth is only
my shell

joyous then
shall i escape somewhere
an angel guide
perhaps
or what if there's no one
there
or nothing dear?

what do i really care?
i still can't feel.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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