when i die
i want to be wrung out
like a dish rag
every ounce of blood
every drop of salty water
squeezed out
i want to be pressure cooked
and made into ceramic bricks
that will last forever
and i want to be built into
a fireplace
where you burn logs
on cold nights
you will hear my voice
whispering in the flames
and the fire will warm my cold
brick nature
and i will feel like flesh
to your fingers
when your run your hands over me
——
Words and Feathers 
You reminded me of Keats’ poem – “This living hand, now warm and capable…”
That’s a very nice compliment, thank you!
I’d like that brick, please, and would place it in my oven to warm, then I’d take it out, and run it over my sheets. Ah, your poem keeps the cold at bay. 🔥
😍
When I die — oh, wait…
Ha ha!
Wow! Just wow! You took that prompt word to a totally unexpected place, but with profound effect! Just awe inspiring, really… 🙂
Thank you. I wasn’t sure since I just wrote a poem with the word brick in it about 15 times.
I always wanted my ashes spread out under the boardwalk in Atlantic City New Jersey
So I could take a walk whenever I wanted to
Just came to check you out saw you
On Roses blog
See you on the other side of creativity
The Sheldon Perspective
Thanks for swinging by, Sheldon. I see you on Rose’s site all the time. I hope you enjoyed your visit!
I will be back soon
Sheldon
Whereas with this one I am simply one word. JEALOUS. I wish I had written it. I love it. It speaks to me of everything I’d like to have claimed to say nearly as well as you did just here, without any break or ruffle in your feathers, you just laid it out, like a magic carpet of truth. Wow. Brilliant work Crow!
Thank you again. I’ve feeling a little self-conscious from all the praise. Not that I don’t appreciate it! 😳
Maybe you should blush! I think you should! Yes you deserve to! 😉