That late which means already left:
dust to dust, the rigid cleft.
Mummified normality, pitiful prosperity;
turgid with a mourner’s duty, bloated with black apathy.
Voided and invalid life;
but what of what is left of mine?
‘Tis only that unutterable:
Death, certain predictable.
Empty eyes that horrify;
gentle hands that petrify;
unfeeling limbs that putrefy.
And still she’ll watch the world go by, with infinite unseeing eyes
The puncture of the unsaid things, of hollow hearts and reckless dreams
raging, torrid in their weakness;
romanticised to fetid sweetness.
Lingering in all its lack;
no smell no sight no taste no touch.
But still a sense, a suppliant shadow.
As if I’d dare forget you.
