Decay
The grave welcomes you with open arms.
Last light escapes, last breath remains.
Circling the body, brushing passed the skin and bone.
It cradles you, your holy manger.
Born into ruin, we feel withdrawal.
Death is your procreator, your predecessor.
From your decay grows a beautiful garden, The stalks caress your failure, and the petals bring you closer to eternity.
Pray for your rebirth.
Pray for your chance to bloom.
The heart starts and stops, the mind disconnects.
As flowers, we grace the earth with our presence.
The tide rises and turns, and we simply expire.