Hollow Branches - The Grave I Chose

I have marked the hill where I will fall, Stone and soil prepared by my hand. Roots entwined with the bones of my craft, A cradle of rot for my final breath. No priests, no kings, no carved decree Only the crows and the carrion wind. A circle of ash, a spiral of roots, A cairn to mark what once was, My body the offering, the rite complete. I return to the soil I served, Seed and scythe in one breath. Let the worms sing their hymns of feast, Let the moss grow heavy on my tongue. I am not the end I am the wound that flowers. I will die barefoot in the dusk, Oak leaves burning in my eyes. The Hollow Root carved in my chest, Veins a map to the darkened soil. No mourners, no dirges, Only wind gnawing the branches. The silence of moss will sing for me, The beetles will keep the time. Bury me in compost and silence, Let blossoms drink from my marrow. Let the worms sing their hymns of feast, Let the moss grow heavy on my tongue. I am not the end I am the wound that flowers. My chest will open like loam, Veins unfurling into roots. Eyes dimming to autumn’s hue, My decay seeding the mouths of mycelium. I will be feast and foundation, A monument of marrow and bark. The earth will hold me tighter than flesh, And the forest will wear my face. The grave I chose is the forest’s mouth, And I walk willingly inside. Let the worms sing their hymns of feast, Let the moss grow heavy on my tongue. I am not the end— I am the wound that flowers.