Jul 24, 2025
an obituary
and so she has fallen.
bleeding can’t last forever; a body only so strong
the months before long, nights of funereal song
it all catches up in the end
a long time coming
and death will be spent running
in place
a poet is always killed by their own blade
whether in the wounded’s hand, the mystery
but who’s to blame when the knife is given?
hand to hand to gentle hand, the story is smeared
aimless is the prosecution
of a vacillating ghost
and death will be spent haunting
herself
but what once coalesced becomes only confusion
a loss so cosmical; it’s as if reality has rebuked itself
in a strange twisted timeline
known only to intangible cries
but the hand has been bitten
and fed no longer,
she dies.
