Generic

When I die 
and they cut the “Y” 
to determine why 
they will clearly see 
in the deep cavity 
that used to be me 
nothing but music. 
Where organs belong 
there is only song. 
The notes will spill out, 
bounce and roll about 
the sterile floor. 
arias 
melodies 
harmonies 
symphonies 
The music pumped 
my rhythmic blood 
and filled my tuneful veins 
melody washing like a flood 
sang to me in the night. 
The songs will survive me 
and remain in flight 
in lyrical convergence 
with all I ever loved 
my death will have loosed 
my opus for all time 
and I will be known 
at last.

Autopsy Song