pristine as a puddle
and sparkling like dander
caught
at the crisp edges of the sun.
my death - made perfect
in defect.
a little too the left of the
moon in full bloom.
just out of night-sight
(or the public's view).
feet planted but infertile,
mind in thirst
but over watered,
soaked
through sodden bone and
limp skin
like root rot in debugged soil.
unkempt
and unkept,
though I stick like seedlings
to everything
that will only rub me away,
in shadow
and in shame.
but as long
as my casket is clean
my death
will be beautiful...
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