[Suzerain of Sheol]

Aesthete

They will tell you that
“Life is a precious thing”
and the days will fade
like lies that are nothing to fear
until all that is left
are mornings for mourning,
moments falling like leaves
to the march of an autumn sun.

And he couldn't bear to be there
in the orchard, in the peaks of summer,
seeing split skulls wherever the apples fell,
it's no wonder he ran away.

But the lips of Death say nothing,
sealed tight without a secret to give shape,
no rumor for the nightly wind
to carry off to other airs,
no salience to render from the dawn,
not a word for world to remain.