Death is my own covetous possession,
A hand-me-down with the worn edges
Of a closed, burnished keepsake box.
Death is the memory of a tree-lined walk,
A daguerreotype, a trompe-l'oiel des bois,
Sight itself turned within, but without end,
A forest of unstirring eyelashes, like long uncut grass,
Death is the stillness of pewter leaves,
And sorrow is sadness in love with itself.
Oct 26, 2024
Oct 26, 2024 at 11:17 PM UTC
Death is my own covetous possession,
A hand-me-down with the worn edges
Of a closed, burnished keepsake box.
Death is the memory of a tree-lined walk,
A daguerreotype, a trompe-l'oiel des bois,
Sight itself turned within, but without end,
A forest of unstirring eyelashes, like long uncut grass,
Death is the stillness of pewter leaves,
And sorrow is sadness in love with itself.
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