when i die

my coffin

won’t be nailed shut,

instead

it will be tied

with the shoelaces of all

who’ve walked over me.

those threads of others

decompose with

my own body,

a body that has

worms in my decaying lungs

and beetles in my eyes,

until myself

and those laces of others

are indistinguishable

from that of the ground

bugs

dirt

blood,

that of the ground and

coffin i lie in

six feet under