love letters for the end of the world: III

when there is nothing left of your altar
but ashes and wilted spring blooms,
 
when the wood of your idols no longer remember
how to hold the smoke of incense,
 
when faith is little more than a fallen tree
rotting quietly in the woods,
 
I'll come. like so many times before, I'll come.
bending stiff knee and raising gnarled hands.
 
I'll lay myself down before you and offer up my life
in its final extant form.
 
as I revealed myself to you years ago in spirit,
I'll do so again in flesh.
 
layer by layer. head to toe. skin to bone.
how very intimate.
 
only this time there will be no rising.
this time there will be no phoenix.
 
this time there will be just flames, just ash,
just me, just the end.
 
after I have lived and died for you,
I will rot and feed the soil for you.
 
with just the fungi and the flies to bear witness.