like tree roots in an old graveyard

wasted is the day

staring into mirrors,

where no one comes any longer

to lay flowers,

to sit beneath trees,

to speak with dry bones.

make me not look in,

but let me dive,

and die

let the light embrace me.

leave me not with time.

every second sixty thoughts

crackle with the wind against the cold marble

and none of them,

upon examination,

contain my face reflected

in the twin pools of

thine eyes

or pondered within the expanse

of thine mem’ry.

let the dead carry their dead

cross over to lifeĀ again.

waste not my coin

for I shall not waste yours.