Keep me in innocent thoughts,
When my pen no longer gives way to utter my heart's cries,
And remember me only by the words I've given you,
The remnants inside of me bleeding through poetry.
Do well to recall that I have loved you,
Though my thoughts are deeper than utterance,
More felt than transformed to words.
Hold them close to you,
For they are as close as one may come,
Touching, but never grasping my soul.
You, here, are the few who will ever follow my lines;
Do tell one another when I'm gone,
"Yes! She was different!
She loved more thoroughly. She laughed louder.
She was shaped by the river's beating edge, gracefully conformed,
Beautified by storms, and given to dancing.
Shakespeare was her hero,
And Satan, her only enemy.
I read the rest for joy, hers for her heart."