These are the linen shrouds I wind,
That bind me and weigh me down,
That drags me down and drowns me,
In the brine of my weary years,
Where it pools in my sarcorphagus.
These are my hands, torned and skinned,
Burning with the harsh contusion of blood,
Breaking in fresh spurts as moths,
With their dusty wings travese,
In the hollow pathaways of my veins.
Under the dark curve of the brimming sky,
I see the dark mirror of my soul,
In the charivari drone of the multitudes,
That throng aimlessly in the chiarascuro of the soul,
While a dark shadow fritters away its light.
I stand paralysed in my wasteful dread,
And watch each consecutive sun set,
Upon each bloated carcass of the day,
And twine the linen shrouds afresh.