cocooned to the emptiness of your page

you don't get to remember your last thought
after you're dead
so it's a far far better world to leave if the thought
you think is dipped in dark dark ink

soon even your most excellent poem will leave your breath
and maggots
will invade your space, you will burn throughout eternity
with the apple in your throat and Paradise will not even
be a memory fading from white-lilies of existence.

Adam and Eve have reconciled and the serpent coils
on judgment day. God is in his glory and the devil
was in the details, after all.

You've written all you could but it was never enough
to split even a hair on a spider's leg

You were perfect once, before you started reading poems
in lost cities that turned you away..