Lost as If in Sorrowing

"It is not to be thought that the life of darkness is sunk in misery and lost as if in sorrowing. There is no sorrowing. For sorrow is a thing that is swallowed up in death, and death and dying are the very life of the darkness" - Jacob Boehme
 
The beast approaches, quite serene.
Perhaps it is a woman
 
robed in beauty, like a portrait of
a woman who became a saint.
 
But just as she comes close enough to kiss,
her candied lips encircling  
 
a warm and pleasant cave,
the thing reveals itself. The woman gone,
 
an open grave appears, the chopped remains
of rodents suffocated in its jaw.
 
Someone watched them struggle
for a while then stop,
 
stiffening. The bones cracked,
the jellied insides drained.
 
That you might once have laid
the swampish cunt of Time,
 
pushing yourself inside
that grimy autopsy of rats,
 
is all that remains of her sinewy limbs
and perfect, candied lips.
 
The dream is lost
as if in sorrowing,
 
yet sorrow is a part of life,
and so the beast will eat it too.