My insides smell like
Cinnamon

But taste
like
wilted

flower petals;
Dry,
bland,
Dead, gone,
Desaturated colours
in my pupils

I melt into a pile of ash in
The ground

With the rest of the infertile soil,
With the insects
With the lush green grass
and the birds
and their nests full of twigs
And chirps
And songs
And hums
And sounds
That echo
That resound
That stay
That fly

With the sky.
Buried with my name.

Until it turns to night,

Then the
moon
and
stars

come out

And
I

Hide

A

W

A

Y

.