mortuary blues

parked next to
the cemetery
where the dead leaves
moaning through
the rusted iron fence
as the chill of winter
the touch of the grave
and the lingering
scent of formaldehyde
a subtle tune
over my flesh
cutting through
my clothes
to curl around
my indecent sins

the sun is
a wan reflection
of itself
as if shining with
the captured rays
by the moon
redirected in its
absent malaise
as the sparrows song
the squeaking wheels
of the gurney
with the sheet
pulled all the way
up and over
the unseeing
gaze of death

i am an
amatuer mortician
preserving the dreams
of lovely ladies
in clear jars
the chemical spill
from my
abandoned affections
sewn into
the empty chest
stitched hastily
with sloppily written
odes to my
favorite poet
playing anubis
while weighing
the cardiac infractions
the squandered dreams

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