Laden pockets of icy pools
Smells of beginning,
Ending and impermanence.
Beneath rolls of linen, like Rotting clementines, I shall go
As rotted wood, or the faithful Dog, forgotten timber, a stack Of bones rediscovered on a
Future archaeologist’s dig.
What a Find I’ll be!
Poet amass, artist with Silenced breath,
One grand Finale
Hence yearning Death.
Thank you for reading my heart.
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