Stillborn

Earthen womb, the cosmic urn inlaid with its teeming mosaic, holds the tiny dust within like a resigned sigh... another deepless sleep as thin as memory. Dry cradled, the child leaves no imprint on the ceaseless advance of cycles, but evaporates, like a fragrance to the scuff of winds, or damp heat from the steaming loam. I feel like a mad secret, weeping the way actors do, with intention; building drapes and towers, a cavernous hoary reef, fossiled in precious amber, resin and residue bartered for a sense of perspective, to wed her apportioned sacrifice to my wasted years, times when I decayed, shedding latent gifts like cells of skin that float aside with a breath... and I know I owe her life, my regal dust to scale the crusted summits, to be oiled by the blush of passions, to be gloriously vainglorious, to bite the air like a sandblasted skull, to bloat my gorging lusts in feasts of decadence, like vitriol, swallowing fires and beasts and propriety, vomiting cancers and turgid feces, and wailing at the billion white lies, the flexing galactic arm that strangles the heavens, the middle finger of providence taunting life with eternity...