It has been so long since I have been dead, so long since I lived.
O, how long I have ossified into amber 'neath the quiet smells of the damp
humus.
If you were to cut me open, you would find hard, leathered organs, dry and
papery, splintering into dehydrated sawdust, brown and stained.
Yet grumbling inside these relics of a thing once alive is an unmatched
hunger.
Raw it is and thirst it does.
It quivers throughout my corpse, splashing ice water on my face and throwing
a mildew upon my vision.
My nose burns bright with the coals of its infirmity—its gray,
headache-tinged nausea.
My eyes burn fiery with the tears of its sovereignty.
My head throbs of its strength.
My ears ring of its power.
My voice sobs out the cadence of its sweet melancholia.
This human form tires but is restless.
My anointed shoulder wearies in the stillness of the bland air.
I can see—physically see—the rain landing on my body, but I cannot fell its
touch, its soothing caress.
The film lies too thick and clammy over my skin, and I cannot peel nor
scrape it off.
The heat of a midsummer afternoon chills me to the core.
The air above ground is fertile with fumes of nirvana.
A crisp day where the air opens the eyes.
Such a peaceful life.
Such a quiet burial.
I am surrendering to my isolation from anchorage.
I stare my love in the face and know its heart is somewhere else.
The gala symphonies drone faintly—far, far away—like rich, creamy satin on
the tip of my tongue.
As I sigh away the months, the tender young foliage curls into the dead
brown husks I ignorantly crunch beneath my feet.
Why?
Is it not a paradox?
Is it not beautiful?
My droggy eyelids itch, and my inflamed nostrils demand attention.
My body says Sleep, but my soul cannot.
On my bed of knives I whimper and grunt and pray for a hand of healing upon
my queasy bosom.
The musty void gives no reply yet reserves hopelessness.
My eyes are singed apart.
I cry for the pregnant purple grandeur of slumber.
At sleep I feel peace.
At sleep I feel peace.
At sleep,
At sleep,
At sleep I feel peace.

 
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