an aroma: putrid, if not earthen
emitting bubbles and it slurps the dead
and the living between the dialogue
listening to the metamorphosis
its fragrant movement
noting, the alchemist observes
as the prima materia boiling
the cauldron ignites beneath
flame: blue, the fierce of fate
with a match, I strike in part
only exhaled, painful inhale,
a reluctant plying with consciousness
recovered apnea breath sipping shallow
each day again
with them I die
time of infinite pulse by the elements
to return a decomposing soul
for an oubliette made rather flame
awaiting vessel
a cold, dark in the unturned, left memory
shadowy in molding lichen musky chaos
to syncopated rhythm