Soft

Sorrow as the valley of death

I stand, apart and away

I wait until the day I draw breath

and smell only beautiful decay.

Burrow underneath loose soil,

and compost as the sun shines

bright on my life and foils

burn me and my dying memory.

To live is to rot

beautifully and brightly.

To die is to harden,

and stop.

So keep rotting, slowly and softly

as love and pain and melody

do keep you from stopping.

And may smell, and sight, and touch,

and feel all push you forward

as love shines upon your rotting corpse.

And once death does find you,

may it find a beautiful vessel

rotted through with love and pain

and melody.

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