A pall for a heel.

My tomb, cased in pathetic
ormolu, my casket, wicker basket.
Lined in stain the colour of sin.
Laid to rest, my perfected mortal body.
Skin pale and bloodless as
halal meat, sunken sockets,
my eyes wide open.

Glazed orbs of pasty, white waste.
Waste of soul and imagination.
Highlighted by a severe, blue smear,
a hasty scribble, an excuse of
an iris. These dried up spheres of
once twitchy opal are surrounded by
a forest of antinomy-encrusted reeds,
extended black grassland,
covered in some wasted kohl, a nihilistic
attempt of beauty that radiates
from a dead, mortal woman.

A tangle of copper wire once fizzed
with static electricity and a flurry of
eccentric thoughts now lay sleek;
as a stilled minnow pond and dead as
hacked, brown vines. I lay in state,
the stench of decomposition, in
a bitter cycle of ash and dust. I lie
in fresh, wasted, black clothes,
mere, pointless trinkets I must
trade with Lucifer to prevent
absolution, but, can you bribe Satan?

My mouth open slightly, whispering
sub-sonically my own ode, my own
obituary. They hammer
down the lid of my cliché
trinket box and screw down the
gilded screws, for a guilty corpse.
I am buried like a dirty secret,
with a headstone.
A monument that is just a
mere insult to everyone.
A cross, a simple cross
that's covered in
razor-wire,
like the rotting heart and soul lying in
perpetual hell six feet under the dirt.

No mourners I receive, no flowers
for the deceased. My mother spits
the barbed monument, like
the cross shedding a cold tear
for my name
ruining the beauty of the statue,
like some engraved graffiti.