I want to die beautiful

I see myself in 60 years,
a crippled shade of man.
Eyes that have seen all too much,
legs that rely on a man-made crutch.
And I see this man and hate him well,
and I know I must die lovely.

I see my children gathering,
to lay that man to rest.
Their tears wasted on this thing,
this wreck of bone and flesh.

I want to die beautiful,
to expire so fine.
To burn so sexy,
to decay divine.

I do not want to grow so old,
that every story I have is told.
And my children dread to see my face,
or I worry about their names misplaced.
 
I see that man in 60 years,
trapped inside his head.
I see him looking at the world,
to which he feels dead.
And in him there is malice,
and hatred and much scorn.
He knows I see him, he sees me too,
and he looks ever so forlorn.

I will pass majestic,
look so sweet.
And all my friends shall kiss my feet.
I will crumble cutely in my grave,
My final act to misbehave.