There will be no great work, no magnum opus
No poems to line streets or glitter of send-offs,
No pedestals to raise this to something it’s not
There shall be no chance to celebrate or mourn
But to let this place heal, let broken rebuild broken
Through the days, all to be heard are rustles of wind
As they pass me by, ye starlit messengers unravel secrets
Stripping away the chrysalis moment, to burn tears away
Renewing hope with the foundations of stone
From a dream built within these two hands
You deserve no good words
You are dead to me now.