The cemetery of my mind, my body under my heart shaped grave

frustrating spits of rain over my last bouquet that had withered over months. The time I took to fix the stems seems useless as it still decays, beyond myself;

I stay sealed in my casket, a frame on the shelf with my smiling face. I was lost but still -

touching veins, delicately shaking under sheets of white; that then lay me to rest, cold cuts into dead skin

leaving my flesh to breathe in the smoke from stairways of light - resting, left-overs in the morgue.

My corpse unfinished, their hands curing rigor mortis. I hear the mortician whispering, ‘it takes time’

but this void of life inside means I cannot feel growth. His words echoing past my unaware sleep. I’m beyond saving and I show nothing. Aside from,

grinning for my funeral