If I ever die prematurely
By my own hand or foul
Please don't go and shrine me
All so public with a howl.
Mourning me for thirty seconds
Laying down flowers
Thanks a bunch
Time for you to forget me
you've almost finished your lunch.
In a week I'll be be proper forgotten
Flowers rotting by the score
A bunch of brown petals
Dropping to the floor.
Burnt out little candles
In pools of hardened wax
Already I am forgotten
As you turn your backs.
My former shrine is an eyesore
Soon swept away from the street
These things aren't good for property prices
Back to normality and the neat.
It could be round the corner
I don't know when I'll die
If you thought I was half-decent
By all means have a cry.
If you want to go and mourn me
That's also your call
But just because it makes you feel better
Don't line the pockets of the flower stall.
Dulwich Poet 3rd August 2015
( There was a murder near where I live not so long ago, and this got me thinking about those temporary shrines that pop up where someone is killed)
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