Ghost Of Sorrow

Of her death– as in my Casket;
I feel the Sovereign seasons fly
Raw upon the biding Earth,
Dragging the Frame inside which I lie.

My Rapture, soiled by loss,
Like my form, defiled by Time.
And Pain: Tears on reminding mold–
An Abyssal depth consumed by repine.
While Buried in gloom,
— Though wood often drones,
And filed feet drum false hope,
For time holds no spade–

My mind still atrophies,
As fleshy white worms
Stem a musty life-worn plea–
The slow recession into shrouded vision.

In prayer to Gods unsent,
While crows caw my obsequies,
The coffin– like the heart– is made for
Interment, with Bereavement’s
Scorching, wooden dirge.