Death framed in Still Life

Legs bent unnatural
Deer-like, spindle-like
Drenched in a moonrise still
The birds sing your praises to the heavens
But the heavens don’t hear
They’ve turned you away and left you broken
A silent shade of pale death porcelain
Cold as the ice in comets
But you will not have a bright tail from which to dance the maypole
You will circle lower lower
The faeries and imps will collect your belongings:
Your flame
Your oceans
Your roses
Your sweet honeydew scent
They will take them and keep them as spoils of war
And even your friends among them will abandon you
To the darkness of endless pressure
Until it makes you a diamond.

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Death framed in Still Life

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