March 10, 2024

You, with your ashen face matching the rainy clouds, with your red eyes reflecting the suns, with your golden palms stretching out and molding the world, you, with lightning coursing across your back, how you will shake when your hands hold no power, how you will fall when your wings blow away with the wind, how you will die when the flowers you march by dissolve into dust.

Will your prison protect you from the infinite ocean and sky? How will you die my love? Will your body be covered in holes? Will your rotting flesh feed the earth you loved so much?  

How will the vinegar taste after so much honey blessed your tongue? 

Oh, how you will die, my dear one. And oh how I will watch, unbearably distant, and never looking you in the eye fearing that I will see my own reflection.