Death the poet

I want death to come the poetic way.
And sweep me off my feet.
A hundred swords of metaphor
Driven in me deep.
I want the sun to be just setting
The sea to wash away my sin
A raven flying overhead
Just one violin.
Death will smell sweet like roses.
Death- my pale complexion
They’ll fly my flag at half mast
And sing of resurrection.
My death will be a sign of beauty
Hopelessness among the lost.
My life as a foreboding symbol
Of the final holocaust.