a rhyming chronicle

this chronic ache in my fucking spine and this saline taste of dry mouth, signs of my perpetual fucking malady, my pal, my valentine for whom i pray death upon always in this shrine where the god i worship is feline but by her divine design i shall die of the chronic ache in my fucking spine

Alms for the birds

When I die, bury me in the valley.
Yes, chant a mantra for my body as it lays;
And then may they come from the sky,
Their black feathers like smoke over the clouds,
Vultures, ravens and crows for my cold, cold flesh.

Such poetry, this gory glory…
And weep at the beauty of it all I shall, I swear!
Because now, in spirit I can fly,
To my grave in the sky.

Such poetry, this holy glory,
For bless my soul,
Now birth as a bird,
Nests abreast the heavens.

Oh the serendipity of this serenity.
So divine it would be, as it should,
My afterlife.

- otwf

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