That late which means already left: dust to dust, the rigid cleft.

Mummified normality, pitiful prosperity;
turgid with a mourner’s duty, bloated with black apathy.

Voided and invalid life; but what of what is left of mine?
‘Tis only that unutterable:
Death, certain predictable.

Empty eyes that horrify;
gentle hands that petrify;
unfeeling limbs that putrefy;

And still she’ll watch the world go by, with infinite unseeing eyes
The puncture of the unsaid things, of hollow hearts and reckless dreams
raging, torrid in their weakness; romanticised to fetid sweetness.

Lingering in all its lack; no smell no sight no taste no touch,
but still a sense, a suppliant shadow.

As if I’d dare forget you.

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