When the homeless write their will

Let it be a quick end
On foreign roads and an unfriendly chill.
Let it be an unremarkable grave
Hastily cobbled by strangers who
Have somewhere and someone to get to.

That incomplete love of mine
Let that be buried too.
To be desecrated by the
Unapologetic pissing vandals.

All those partially written letters,
May they serve as a bed
For naked bodies to grind against
Making love on the sly.

If the dust of passing years cloud the grave
Let the only names visible be those of
The drunk despondent lovers, whose
Scribbles will outlive their pain and mirth.

Let no poet ever find me.
May I never be the fodder for the
Metres and metaphors of those, who
Smilingly let their truths be devoured by their rhymes.

A few will wonder, yes.
But wonder has a way of losing its voice
In the harsh howls of time.
Let that voice too lie in rest
Anonymous, uncelebrated, utterly untainted.