Eulogy

 

With broken shards, I know somebody, will build me a tombstone, in grey
This rain that comes down in loud wailings is all thats left.
I try to collect its sounds to write them down, an eulogy.

How would you remember me if I were gone?
My grey tombstone wouldn't mean much, but for the proof that I lie somewhere inside, hidden, alone, like I always do.
Tombstones can't always tell between life and death.

I'll write myself an eulogy instead, with the wailings of this rain, an apology, a non-apology.
The constant stink of death inside, spreads with the breeze of this rain.
Do sorry notes to yourself count after death?

These wailings grow louder, and against the metal sheets on my rooftop, they seem like an earthquake.
What sound does the rain make against tombstones that can't tell between life and death?

I'd prefer my apology instead of the stone.
An apology to my living self, from my dead.
This rain will come again and drench the soiled paper of the apology
But its wailings against the paper will be softer than those against grey stone.
I'll then say that at least in death, I was comfort.
For rains with loud wailings.