In these four walls,
I have lived and died,
reanimated again each morning,
a little less the same each time.

It takes four million years to reanimate
myself in the morning,
to compose myself again and again,
step by step, sigh by sigh, line by line
moving forward.

My reincarnation is ugly,
horrid and grotesque
nothnig like the legends that wax poetic
about a birth borne by fire, by birdsong, by hope.
My body is furlonged with feeble admiration for life,
with an empty hole for my heart,
my soul sold long long ago.

The fuge that is my melody, that is my melancholy
is a hymn sung by a murder of crows,
congregants to my black mass, my unholy funeral, my rebirth
singing my song throughout the ages
upon the winds of eternal strife and misery.

I am floating upon a buring pyre, arms folded reverently
into the familiar posture of death, going back out into the sea
that birthed me.Enveloped into the arms of my mother,
embraced once more. Why is it always at the end I learn that
you loved  me? Drowing in my own misery, I do not hear you crying,
I do not see you withering away, I do not see you at all.