writer's eulogy

[childisgone]

She dips the oily featherpen into the
flaking ink, to the layer of
stubborn moisture-infused black
beneath
Her lantern burns low

Her weary eyes lament the stagnant,
arid heat of day
the dusky fields of taupe
infinite before her, sway

The red branches seep slowly
into the creamy whites,
her lashes thick with dust;
the tufts of debris
weighing heavily

Her head feels thick with
cottoned tomb
thought shielded from birth
by encasing womb

a cold belly
vacant of the phoenix
who carries the key to the lock
of inactivity