Each beat, a drum;
upon the steps I lay
for the ritual to come:
to carve out my heart
for the consumption of none;
for the crude reality
that is being alone,
and yes, you are here
but, are you here?
or just a part of you
stripped, dismantled
from intimacy?
and so this putrid voice
wishes to convey:
"begin your autopsy
in this body of clay"