When I am at that age, called old, when the heart heaves its final push—
that push towards the last glittering hope, that push away from past pains—
when I am at that age, I hope I burn up, with all of my fibers glowing bright—
to light that convulsing, endless dark; the spanning, starless galaxies.
I want to beacon to them, my lost family. I hope they see me,
like a weeping willow that sparked during a thunder storm,
and I hope they come as shadows, calling out for the light.
I want all of them; the masses. From all four corners of the faded map,
and from the hazy ancient times, and the ones who held my hand, yesterday.
Let me burn, please? Let my fingers of warmth, grow to branches,
then splintering, let my embers scatter into the pull of the vacuum
where they swirl in perfect, dark vertexes. May they all have one glowing shard of me?
I just want to be the stars you see at night. When I am gone, look to the heavens.
Know there is a sliver for you as well.
That is all I hope.