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,

Do you remember gardens? Walking calmly. Mother and father tended it and your assummed holdage of the sun for its growth was a guise so young were you. 


Sometimes I drown in the things you cant drown in. 


Some rocks that look like they hug like you did.


Teeth fall and the sky has tricked me into holding open maws in acceptance.