TROPHY

I shudder to think what cretin dreams

of floral sheets and empty memories

of fuzzy slippers, pajamas of fleece

and hushed voices 

speaking of disease

of growing old and going cold 

the touch of frost that comes at dusk

from dust to dust the preacher says

cremate my bones but mount my head

and on a plaque bellow my chin

just underneath a wry grin

write “never grew old, never grew up”

and truth be told I’ll never give up

the chance to placate deaths final dance 

and quicken life within my veins 

restrain the longing for romance 

and tainting the chemistry I savor

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