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.