When I Rest by: Rose Clifford
And when the bones that lattice my insides,
Become dust in a cheap casket.
What me will you remember?
The niave fawn of my youth,
Being chased by the fears in my head?
Or the sullen student to knowledge,
Seeking answers in poetry,
Bleeding words, and scratching ink to page.
Or the bespeckled woman of old age,
Of a mind and body withering in unison.
Whichever me you see when you close your eyes,
I hope her face is claiming a confident smile.