Pen my eulogy on a blank sheet of papyrus,
in Indian ink with a feather quill,
then when it is spoken and over,
set me afire on a funeral pyre.

For life is short,
and death long,
and I’d rather be remembered in song.

Etch my face into Marble,
as Michelangelo did for David,
then recall my words as I have writ them,
and heed my warnings spawned from history’s archives.

For reality is thin,
but hindsight thick as steel,
and I’d rather be heard than made to feel.

Turn my body into dust,
and let it drift evermore on the breeze,
so that when I am gone,
I may return to the void where I belong.

For entropy is building,
as the universe begins to fade,
and I’d rather be stardust than human-made.

And when the time has come and gone,
don’t linger too long,
for I am moved on,
Back in the endless void of nothingness,
from which I have spawned.

For life is short,
but love eternal,
and I’d rather be part of the nothing and loved,
than part of a lonely revival.