Some days before he died, my ancient friend
Apparently was musing on his end:
“What bothers me,” he said, “is I don’t know
My destiny.” “You mean, how long you’ll live?”
He did not say, so I’m not positive.
At any rate, the question now is moot:
He’s gone and I’ve no notion on what route
His wafting ashes fly. If he survives
This world, and somewhere else his spirit thrives,
He’s given me no sign I’ve recognized—
Unless this verse’s course is supervised
And prompted by his presence in my mind,
A ghost with which I’m mystically aligned.