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.