[untitled]

Closed eyes.
Goodbye.
Sleeps so soundly.
Like a saint.
Headstone
and
smell of grass.
Like a newborn.

Posterity carries
through their years
and
world decays
with entropic self-hate.

Decaying saints
held in almost
too-high esteem.

Perhaps I speak
from ignorance.

Enough of death’s
mysteries.
I prefer insincerities.
Like dancing over graves.

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