a love affair with death

the beetles digging deep in my skin,

they're dyed in crusted, rusted alizarin.

blood or pigment there is no difference.

by the soil that which accepts me

i am become deliverence.

the way my skin melts into the glade

of which, the touch of decay,

sped along by April showers,

pummel the ground to a verdant grave

of which, my body lays down.

though perhaps a windy crescendo shall

herald the end.

after all, what other embargo walls

could the beetles erect in my lost flesh?

they eat to stall a love affair with death.

now, words like blaspheme make me ache.

for this rotting body is in a place

of consecrated ground,

and time will leave no lasting trace

of what these bones used to sing about.