The easy thing to say has always
made me want to eat acid,
but, like, not the fun kind,
like the deadly-burn-yr-belly-like-Alien, kind.

But I would rather burn
than be burned.

I will be alive when you bury me, there still
when they scatter me back,
and I will be there,
there,
when all the easy things
have had their cheap dance,

to mean something,
is to outlast everything loud
and proud
and pomp.

Easy goes out the door,
when time stretches the canvas out,
large.