I think I can paint this world for you now. From decadence and disorderly life to death and blank slates. Something I own, expressed dearfully to you as if I have always owned it. Perhaps remembered by no one in the end, but for now, maybe even just a glimpse of light from the murk and more, just to prove it can exist. even if it fades within the hour.

Sincerly,
       Rosier.

Dear Death,

Sit in a platter of dead, sprinkled into a throne, piles seated upon the cold stones, expressions of pain and rot, truly a king's deserved throne. Ask for their names and write them down on the flagstone, rightly trample on them as you enter and climb hands and knees to be seated at the peak. Raise a hand in feint help, becken towards the door and the freedom behind it as if they could just step upon the flagstone and leave their name behind, chains could never be so powerful as living. Sit alone amongst the dead and fear that you live. 


You own no house or parcel of land yet beckon me to come home. 


Settling me inside your ribcage wrapped around your heart while you traipse with leaves and flity spirits mocking the ocean's surface for its brevity. 


Not a Place or Thing not Built of Suffering That I Desire