since dawn
i have mourned
for the dead who cannot die
instead, always folding inwards
as a rose that opens its face to the breath of morning
forever, in backwards time
wrapped in black velvet
i was born
gently placed into a bed of lilies
by the soft, cold hands
of the undying dead
they sang hymns into my new ears
pleading:
i promised
that one day i would grant them peace
(they deserved it, as all dead things do)
but now, i am hungry
and cannot make alms until i am full
they nursed me at their breast
filling me with the sap of decay
until my belly was so full
that red ochre molasses poured forth from my mouth
the ancient wine
of their dying hearts
bled through the sheets in which they swaddled me
cherry plums bloom in my footsteps
when i am gone they die
drenching dry ground
the deep crimson
of the dead that flow in my veins
my fingers carry their stain
my grace cannot help
but transform
all i touch
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