Epitaph

 
And the graves dances on my flower's death
I spawn worms on my tombstone 's epitaph
and leave them on earth to die without date
as i dwell with a pen stabbed in my hand .
 
And now, i smell their stench of soul's death
as they stand at my grave;, they rot in flesh
today, i am as dark as the inked air of my veins
as cloudy as the pages' sky, frowned at from beneath
 
How yellow their faces shine with envy and grudge
as they stick a thorn in my backs' flowering rose
a kabbalistic tribe, and black magic smeared my face
not dead, but white scaled, sun-burnt till the day
 
I lost the youthful glow to give them more satisfaction
peace, health and a torment thought, unto doomsday