Who will write our requiem,
commemorate the verisimilitude of our breathing, our living,
the seeds we sowed, the fruits we fattened?
When the lushlands are stale and the oceanrails rupture -
who will mourn us when we rot,
when our perfumed armpits, our hairless privates, brown and molder?
Will it be the ten-of-ten-of-ten-thousand cigarette butts,
or the plastics still caught in wildlife guts,
the alabaster Styrofoam in forever-full bloom?
Or will it be the maggots that birth from our ulcers,
the blowflies and mosquitoes
that will mourn us when we go?
Yes, I think the maggots will sing for us.
The dirt we punctured with metal straws, sucking juices,
the rivers we bridled, the trees we toothpicked,
their song will be a humoresque,
as the crushing waves rid of our reins,
the shorelines on harmony, the leaves in hymn,
so quiet, an earthly quiet.
I don't think the mountains will remember us
when we're gone, and the Ether will still move on.
But worry not, Sapien brothers, we will be missed!
The maggots still sing for us,
and our epicurean wastes.
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