Nigh, did I sell my ashes to my religion?
And still, they would say;
They won't hear of me above.
Even if I veer toward the torpid breasts of a lake,
or pierce the joints of oracular cormorants
peeking at my escape.
Even in the splendor of my oblivion;
Death is a proverbial sough of an endless breath—
Mine is a regret ;
An abstraction of a fabulist.
A reoccurring thought,
that quenches the fire of a resolute theory.
Nobody lights the candles on my tomb—
Instead, they snicker at me instead;
“Did you see her face?”
A voice that sounds like a million others
who deems me worthy of pandemonium.
“Oh, goodness gracious! Was she smiling!”
They drink tea on my feet with plastic cups,
And leave them burning for the dead to mock.
An image hangs askew in my asylum,
a woman with buckteeth—
and a fist that flattens a rope,
heels trembling on a coffee table;
A sapling of hell that bears rheum.
There is a sound of prayer.
And still, they say;
They won't hear of me above,
nor see my fingers stealing the sky anew.
They care a little less of me now
They know nothing but my flesh,
that slips on a chair,
for a breathless rest.
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