I've set old limbs atop a funeral pyre:
hands that reach towards the past,
and legs that carry me there,
wrapped in skin too tight to wear.
I mourn with flames in my hand,
but it's either that body or mine.

so I set alight my desire to live
and it fights to burn down
my mind's desire to **** me.
I think the procession will go on forever.
I've been wearing a veil for weeks now
and that body has not yet turned to ash,
but from the fire is beginning to rise
a person I will learn to love.