It’s funny isn’t it?
Or maybe the joke is only for me
that I suppose
the lids that had damned me continuously
will flutter to a close in a heartbeat
(or so perhaps someday
hopefully when I’m safely tucked
to sleep) never to open, but only
to shadows pin-pricked in
parting flesh and dimples and moles
and droopy lashes and tacky lines and ghost
Fair pale turning ash, turning cold
turning stone and I’d have to dance
the rest of my gray-scale life
six feet above your cement grove.
My saints, my demons, my creaking bones.