When I pass away
My books will stay.
Who can say
Whether readers will delve
Through dusty shelves
And discovering my book
Take a look
Into my soul.

The whole
Me
Now free.
No longer able to care
About those who stare
At what I wrote
In earnest or joke.

What is this desire
That my words light a fire
In hearts I will not know?
I am lust
Dust
And scribbles on a page.
‘ No great matter, when I am mouldering in the grave.

I am not brave
And grope
For hope
In the here and now.
For the plough
Will not disturb my sleep
Nor will I weep
In the solitary grave.