There’s a sweet acrid clog rising up
From the depths.
Ah, an old friend. I thought you had died.
Walking on graves, snakes down my spine
Summons you it seems.
Can die, be dying, mourn.
But not mourning seems a sin. It leads
Back to dying.
And the clog isn’t exactly bitter, not yet.
But it’s rising, building.
Erratic in how it comes about.
I know I’ll die when I get back.
My coffin of solitude awaits for me
To lie in. Who knows how long this
Time I’ll cease to exist.
Paper thin walls will transform, no one will
Hear, cause no-one will care. The (coffin) is a