For God’s sake don’t leave it
up to the monumental mason
I'm apprehensive, knowing that my endWill lack the clarity I would prefer.
For that’s the way with words, they bend
Then break; the focused phrase becomes a blur
My epitaph will be approximate,
A wall of jumbled stones too rough to fit,
I know the snags when trying to create
A dash of truth, or digging deep for wit.
I’ll be deceased, a flaccid word for "dead",
Belov’d instead of criticised or snide
A well-worn template that my life has fled -
I’ll pay in honesty for having died.
Unless, of course, some calm, distrusting soulStrikes up a tune and brings about control.