am i building a heaven in my head
when i imagine the way of things past
have i scrubbed the inside of my skull
a pot polished thin of this life’s filth
till all that’s left are threadbare glimmers
small bright joys like pearls strung on spider’s web
what cost to life if one forgets the many deaths
little corpses buried deep in tangled memory
mindful muffled howls beneath this landscaped surface
calling for extreme unction and rest