His palm is a sepulchre,
It holds captives and sun-rays.
Macabre consolation fractured his skin.
He who embalms the petals of my words,
to paint forlorn attempts.
With keen acumen he carves the coffins
And adorns the figures of decay.
As alchemists, he works,
to convert base spirits into colours;
Immortal for all the decades of disdain.
His palm is the afterlife,
It keeps hummingbirds and streams.
Unholy droplets cured his cells.
He who puts me on hold,
like soulless novels on his shelves.
As soothsayers, he says,
"You count your pulses; no longer."