'Death Is The Mother Of Beauty'

Death-
Death she died today
At least that's what i heard them say
Cripled comatose choking
in her humble hotel bed
holding her
so heavy with death.
It was black.
It was the same black.
Black-
the color of her hair running over
the blue spider veins
scrawled over her shoulders
Wax skin. White snow.
Shiver stiff.
Blood still stained
on her scarlet lips.
Charcoal ashes still smudged
On her sleeping lids
How beautiful Death is.

Swollen with child
So slightly roused and riled
Smothered and strangled
A suffocated dead cry
from the blue never born baby inside.
This is Beauty.

We come to witness
a sacrifice to memory
A sharing of sentimental
lying eulogies
Stories and speeches;
Gravediggers and preachers
gether together
on this wet weeping Wednesday
to stare and stand where
our lonesome loves lay:
So delicately in decay.
We raise the flames
to drown the blame
and burn bodies like falling autumn leaves
in all of our guilt and greif.
It was grey.
The same grey.

Grey-
the color of the ashes that came
from the cremetorium
and kept in ceramic urn
atop the mantle
in a shrine of burning
photos and candles.
But now they blow on te breeze
So stray So free.

But it's the same cold
as the cement ceremonial cemetary
it's the same tormenting temporary
The same burning death...

Death-
Death, they found her dead today
At least that's what i heard them say
How long?
They couldn't tell
They couldn't save her from Hell.
Hell,
they couldn't even save her from herself...

But Beauty,
Oh, that sweet blue baby
torn from warmth of womb
Survived suffering
Oh, she'll never feel a thing
And she'll be alive again.
And Death-
Death dies again.

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Comments (1)

This is an extremely painful poem to read. That line - gravediggers and preachers - really struck me!