Bittersweet Leftovers

 

I will hear the Swan’s song soon.

Pale, as the moon shines.

A fading shade and then gone.

 

My feathers will become fossils.

My bones will become relics.

My memory will become heirlooms to be passed down.

 

What more could I desire to leave behind?

When this fire goes out, do not doubt.

The ashes shall preserve my bittersweet leftovers

 

Standing as a haunting reminder to all

More ghostly than any ghost

That I shall survive for as long as there are those who remember

 

And that is it.