Woven flesh knotted with the confines
of my inner plague.
A misery of reflections that I would
wish never to gaze upon, as I'm my own
medusa, confined in stone impressions.
And I transfixed upon my own morbidity.
But then you gave me a tattered box.
It's confines rattled like aged bones.
A melody of death sombre in its gifts.
I collected them and used the
webs of decay to knit them hanging
like lynched memories swaying harshly.
With this chime of
syllable decomposition,
I heard your message.
That even though every gift is concealed in a darkness,
there is always a moment
where its brighter than any luminosity given by the light.