I don't mind of anyone
calling me foolish,
the moment
that they'll hear me speak
for my mouth is a coffin
buried a thousand miles away
from my gravestone.
the rays of the sun
facings its death
on the mountain's peak
are the scraps of my hopes
arrayed and discarded
in a paper cone.
Too pallid to live
but too ornate to die;
that when you try to open
and examine my wrist,
you'll find white butterflies
through vast necrosols —
a living corpse
buried inside.
—MLD | 01262021