Mask.

There is a gleam,
A halogen blade to dissever the glooms that embargo my organs.
There is a hope,
A harlequin-kiss to cut off the toxic that bleaches their teeth.
There is a light,
An opal masquerade to guard all my shade till the time comes.
There are flowers,
A barrage of scents to stuff in my lungs for great self-keeping.
There is a laugh
Till I drop-fucking-dead / choke on my vomit / have some poetic heart
attack.
There is no way
To butter-up the dark, the nonexistence that stalks ubiquitously - there.
There is no mask
To infuse my dead flesh with the pulses and cells of rechargeable bliss.
Death defecates on your flowerbeds - poetry is not paint-by numbers.