This Body Poem by Eric Cockrell

this body's not my home...
just a nest, frayed and tattered.
a tumbledown shack,
weathered by the years.
a cup stained by use.

a fire gone to embers,
a prayer lost in the din.
the sound of the hawk's wings
in a sky no one can touch.

bury it, or not! i dont care!
you can burn it on a pyre,
or leave it for the wolves.
i cannot take it with me,
have no use for name or identity.

the bird upon leaving the cage
doesnt come back for the cage!
the ego dies and dissolves
back into the matter of timelessness.

no stone, no preacher, no sadness,
when you've given it all it is finished.
a soft rain begins to fall...
this body is not my home!