To Read the Book of Dead

You need not know that my silver is gold or how little I loved before I had your hold. O’er I stood again, shoveling flowers off graves to offer the dead. “Now that I yearn for your lacerating nails, where are they?” Ceasing into everlasting life, in disguise of death. I, while reading the book of death, and thinking abt the muse who is dead. And not death as ‘end’ but as life which is frozen, as a life which is everlasting and living in me. Mirrors meaning underworld in wayward hues leaving reminiscence of empty picture frames like rainbow rust in delicate dust growing wildflower hearts. Why must ridges of your body run clean knives and remind me of what it feels like to stand alone? And why must you resurrect right where my soul is?