Plucking nails like petrified petals,
each one tipped in faded gloss.
And they fall silently,
                 this life is now morbidity.

Wood has splintered within this carcass
of holding, she plucks hair and manifests
a brush,dipping it in the empty socket
                                                        of reflection.

Visual metaphors adorn the now
                                                       sullen silk interior.
Now hanging like drapes in a
         still wind of putrefaction.

Death is a void less experience,
         where one must entertain oneself,
for eternity is a long time to captivate myself
               in a six by two tomb of introspection.