I may clothe myself,
but it is not out of shame,
it’s for the weather.

© Matthew Harlovic

Get out of my head
Thoughts of you are pounding the walls of my inner thoughts
Blaring "Thunder" so loud, I can barely think
My heart can no longer pay your rent
But, I want you to stay
Reluctantly paying your dues
Just so you don't move too far away
If you don't mind, I'll pour us some tea
And talk about the future

Do not stand
          By my grave, and weep.
     I am not there,
          I do not sleep—
I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints in snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain.
As you awake with morning’s hush,
I am the swift, up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight,
I am the day transcending night.
     Do not stand
          By my grave, and cry—
     I am not there,
          I did not die.
— Clare Harner, The Gypsy, December 1934