It's true,

you become immune to the smell

of corpses in your backyard

after a while.

The bodies

once stunk like sin.

But now

the stench is attached

to the walls

and it all

works its way in.

I have been tending

this funeral home

for deadly long;

a lawn

solemnly black

where night

swallowed the brightest dawns


Pasts once fond

are now a haunting ground

for memories:

In graves lay years.

On strangers' tombstones

I carve hindsight

in a stanza.

But I wonder, now,

if these were the ways

to spend my days:

collecting bodies to mourn over

rather than risk my own

in passionate zest.

Shall I have been better off

in another's deathyard,

battered and bruised,

pulseless and buried,

but more alive


than now?

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