“o Death; alone your hands plow and prune the flowers of me — alone your eyes water their roots, tear upon star-fallen tear, a procession of pale doves. i unmoor underneath you; i peel apart, artless, with all the graces unafforded to blood. i come alive, a curious clay veiled holy with flowers; i skin away from the bed that had held me — frogsilk mourns its’ loss, shedding pearls. flesh moves: i swim away from the lake-heart, ripple closer to the sun of your palms. catharsis: for o Death, alone you soothe what ails my lonely heart; alone your alms chase the shadows from it, making red the clear midnoon of its’ pyre. i wonder — what, if not love, could i dare hope this benediction be?”
— on death as apollon
march 16th, 2019 / / lianna schreiber (via ragewrites)
