XIII (death)

it takes at least 80 years for my bones to crack and become brittle,
in 50 years they can be made into a home for native flowers.
vines will travel around my ribcage and a mouse will burrow
in the leaves where my heart used to be.
a gentle creature, timid,
only rustling out when the weather feigns happy.

and then, traveling in and out of the cracks of my fibula and tibia,
a snake will swallow the rodent.
an eloquent creature, comfortable amongst itself,
clearing out the furniture the mouse left behind.

it will shed its skin, a past life buried within a past life,
and together we will miss the beauty of life in the beauty of death.

Published by Robin

Poetry author from Pennsylvania

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