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Sorrow as the valley of death
I stand, apart and away
I wait until the day I draw breath
and smell only beautiful decay.
Burrow underneath loose soil,
and compost as the sun shines
bright on my life and foils
burn me and my dying memory.
To live is to rot
beautifully and brightly.
To die is to harden,
and stop.
So keep rotting, slowly and softly
as love and pain and melody
do keep you from stopping.
And may smell, and sight, and touch,
and feel all push you forward
as love shines upon your rotting corpse.
And once death does find you,
may it find a beautiful vessel
rotted through with love and pain
and melody.