BROKEN VENEER BRITTLED CRACKED FRAUGHT LOOSE DUSTED DUST TO DUST TO THE WIND BLOWN TO THE WINDS DISCOMBOBULATED MY UNDOING UNDONE DISSOLVED APART IN THE HEART ARCHIPELAGO EVAPORATED ASUNDER IN SHREDS WISPY THIN AND COOLING ANNEALED IT SHOWS ONLY JUST UNTIL QUICKENING MAKES SENSE AND POSSIBLE ONE THREAD COALESCED YES CONFABED CONFIGURED RECOVERED DISCOVERED AND COBBLED BACK GALVANIZED TIGHTENED RETUNED REVIVED REBOUND AND PRO FOUND NOTHING MISSING IN FACT THE SYNERGY NOTEWORTHY NEVERTHELESS IT WILL HAPPEN AGAIN IT WILL HAPPEN AGAIN
Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend And life a faithful pillow - a pillow to go flat, a spirit to drift off, glaciers to melt and raise the sea. The blueprint is clear - Expect a tiny storm of mercy– full of crows and bottle flies to debride the corpse, to tithe the land. And respect the putrid demise - things that fall apart make space for miracles. Yet there persists the memory of breath rinsed in lavender and salt air. Then the dreams for blood and semen to revive, to metabolize every tired, sad gospel into a hatch of octopus. Death confesses everything as she conjures her necrosis, as she feigns redemption, fools us with false devotion. She believes our defiance will set her free. We must let grief to be the thread and needle to darn the rend, renew the cloth. then we can grasp the nascent green of winter wheat in spring.
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