when i die don’t look to my words for answers, don’t seek hidden secrets in the reams of inconsequential odes to her

grab my ipod, a gift from my daughter years ago

dust it off, hope it keeps a charge, pop in the earphones and listen

there you will find me, the real me, not hidden behind metaphorical meanderings

let the bass wash over your soul as it did mine

listen to the guitars, the drums crashing into your cerebellum

pay attention to the lyrics, know i sang along with everyone of them a few hundred times

that’s where i am

hidden in the music

not the lines, the lies, the refrains, the barely constrained passionate cries

that is the fool that dreamt

the ipod contains the person that lived