To Unbury

Well-dressed in dust,
they repair your hands
as if you were sleeping; rarely beauty

survives the teeth of time.

As for me, these tear-filled eyes
steeped in dreaming recognize
the rhythm of the final dance.

Could it be this cold, dead insect
whose wings are made of ice
are mine?


Matt D said...

The beautiful thing
about being human
is our ideas
can die in our stead.

In that sense only
dying is the first stage
in a new beginning.

Short Poems said...

Beautiful write, wisely done!

shanna said...

Hello rachel long time no read your words clifford sent your blog I would love to put some of your poetry on Shanna s beat in sketchbook please email me shanna@hawaiiantel.net

Dick Jones said...

Intimations of mortality? Powerful. I think I've been here too.