drafted-picture post ancient book-find stream of thought.

at my estate sale,
i want them to look for
what i couldn't have hid
underneath the floorboards.
i meant my prayers to be
storytellers and agenda-less apostles.
they're invisible,
that's why you can't find them.
what price to you sell
attempts towards adequacy
(or passion) at?
with the profit you make
when my knick knacks
and breath are sold,
buy back from or for me
the moments when i forgot myself enough
to learn what to live for
be warned -
you'll have to barter hard.
morticians dissect things for a living.
so surprise them
when you have motives that
can't be torn apart.
be the converse of my
weaker moments,
only steal the songs that are left
in my lungs
and afterwards,
seal the casket
so my monotones remain
myths.
would you be
so kind?