My body is a paintbrush—
Weaving its soul into the fabric of time,

Living out its own slice of infinity,
Across this canvas made of memory,

Dripping upon the hardwood floor,
To trickle up my slender spine,

Slipping into my porcelain skull,
like a blade to the softest silk,

So gentle, it almost feels natural,
rotting my mind like red wine,
a beautiful corpse,

Decaying into lost photographs never captured,
That drift without purpose,
in the arms of a motherly wind,
To which death is but a dream.