Nature takes back what’s hers. Some things stand a time longer than others, but in time she takes them all.
~ Anne Schilde
Lonely flowers will likely decorate my final plot when nature takes me back. They will come, she’ll take them too, and in time, they’ll come no more. Who then will say I was a writer if the words I leave behind do not? And what perfect words upon my tomb at journey’s end will tell the world of my undying passion for the words I so loved to write?
If all my life I thought it through, I doubt I’d ever find more perfect words than those inscribed there now. They’re fitting, don’t you think? What poetic script could be more apropos? She’ll take my breath, she’ll take my bones, but she cannot have my epitaph. For if indeed I truly am a writer, then e’er my words shall dance upon my grave.
wilted memories of me
my words linger on
© 2013 Anne Schilde
for Pauper Prince ♥