Prediction

Perhaps they will read this when I'm dead.

They'll find it amongst old stored clothes and belongings,

And fall deep in love with my rhyme and singsongings,

Their tongues titillating on things that I've said.

Perhaps they will read this when I'm gone.

They'll read it in classrooms in sterilized samples,

Politely dissect it in textbook examples,

And feel for its pulse in humanities throng.

And what I held dear, and what I once believed,,

Perhaps they'll consider in careful conjecture.

But can words convey a complete retrospection?

If words could bleed, now that would be poetry!