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Silver razor traces each wrist

Burgundy trickles free in shame

It’s warmth a wet, wayfaring kiss

Beckoning crimson in dual trails

Hot tide on which death sails

Red pools under flesh

Rescue’s shroud, a storm cloud

Vapors soot, a soft Tourniquet

Heeding

Deep needle tip pierced and bites

In funneling pressure

Wounds tides recede

The shroud drools

Old yew which grasps at the stones

That name the under-lying dead

Thy fibres net the dreamless head

Thy roots are wrapt about the bones

Virginal brides file past his tomb

Strewn with times dead flowers

Bereft in deathly bloom

Alone in a darkened room

Running red, flayed open, floundering, lone

Burning black, my flesh charred to the bone