Indulging an Extravagent Tragedy

(Pre-Script: This poem should be read as the song,"Blackbird," #14 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

If I die of this Bubonic Plague or
latest epidemic,
(please remember that I always did like lavender roses
and gardenias)
and
if they unearth my tomb in 500 years,
nothing will remain
of the good smelling girl I always was.
The flowers I was buried with lying across my chest
or
clutched in lifeless hands
will be the first to rot and decay;
the form of finger bones curved over nothingness is all
that will be visible,
if anything is visible,
when they unearth my remains in several hundred years.

-XOXO,