EMBALMED

This morning I am a dry husk,

and no amount of rain on dark

green leaves, the sound of their

hammering, will fill the emptiness

that has been left after the carving

and cutting of fiery emotions

and grief alike away, no flood

of rain and thunder will fill

that gaping hollow, serene

and still, no sunlight breaking

through the cover of clouds

hugging each other as they

would fear they fall otherwise

and be snow on the green

and golden fields. No, it's

the distant death brought

close that took a fishmonger's

knife and hacked and threw away

the useless gills and intestines

of emotions. The seas they were

made for have run dry of water

and magma, opening to the void

above the lunar desolation.

01.08.2024

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