A Final, Desperate Hope
When I am dead and Johnny Depp has died
As well, will we find cuddling in our deaths
A sweet replacement on the other side
For troubled things, like orgasms and breaths?
Do arch Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde
Find comfort in each othes arms in Père
Lachaise? Do they find solace undefiled
By lust, embracing one another there?
Are there arrangements for a threesome or
A foursome deep among the dead, union
Of souls—the famous, infamous, the whore,
The pure—in blank, innocent communion?
Is there some hope for more, one forgotten,
(Like me) among those ones unforgotten?