Samsara

Upon the eleventh hour,
excremented by boots of lead,
my mind keeps ticking, ticking,
but in this grave, I lay my head.

The pant, panting of footsteps
begins to fade away.
The sun has been depleted,
the moon ceasing my final day.

Heaven's bells are tacet,
solitary silence has been birthed.
Kindling the black flame candle,
my restless spirit has been unearthed.

A marrowed shell awakens,
cobwebbed in a box of pine,
gasping, gasping for a breath
only to inhale monoxide.

In the prolonged silence,
a light brush strokes my skinless hand.
I see a flicker in the midst,
my oddity now demands.

The pattering of his wings,
smoldered charcoal grey,
ingested luminescence
awakens this wooden crate.

And in the deathly silence,
hollowness apprises such a soul.
This cage quelling ribs,
a fleshly blanket arose from coal.