I will be bones

A Poem by Maxwell Ryder

One day, I will be bones
without the being,
a pair of orbitals, unseeing;
ribs without meat,
no heartbeat, no heat,
no morals: a vagabond
boxed in a hearse,
no need for hunger or thirst;
dirt will be my fresh air,
and the Devil or God
will be my host;
Where’s my hair?
What shall I wear?
Upon the heavens,
I just sit and stare,
Contemplating
Subtleties upon meaning.
Why was Earth meant
To be fleeting?
Why did I work so hard
Just to become a ghost?
How does six feet below
Reach to eternity
Without wings?