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SomedayNo plot for this body when I die,no pine needles puncturing my back,no false fir lullabies of the wind.I refuse to rest in golden valleys,tune my ear to bird garblethat mistakes decay for music.Moss is not a cradle.Salt is not salvation.Worms don’t bless.I won’t become part of the “cycle.”I’m not compost.I’m the interruption.Death in a…