Within its starkwhite ribcage, how the heart must flutter wildly, O, and always sing against the pressing darkness: all it knows until at last it feels the numbing sting of death. Then life’s brief vision swiftly passes, imposing night on one who clearly saw.
Death held your bright heart tightly, till its maw— envenomed, fanged—could swallow, whole, your Awe.
And yet it was not death so much as you who sealed your doom; you could not help but sing and not be silenced. Here, behold your tomb’s white alabaster cage: pale, wretched thing!
But you’ll not be imprisoned here, wise wren! Your words soar free; rise, sing, fly, live again