The eve of my death shall be my coronation,
For although I lived and breathed it was but a lament,
I hid it well,

No one knew,

For pain did not upon my face draw its battle lines,
This garden of earth’s simple delights I found barren,
I go now to a place where the soul never hungers,

Now I know,

This was always the dream of my final resting place,
Under a beam of a cold weeping moon,
There I shall sleep my discarded life into the roots of a dead rose,

*This is home...