There have been nights when the darkness was not dark enough to exhume my soul
but I prayed it away
because life was too consuming.
When the fingers of Death
pried me open to remove the oyster of my soul,
I did not feel the fear paralyze me
because I have been ready to go on
the condition that I am granted the
highest level of heaven.
Death carries me in his limp arms,
prays over my fading scars.
Hymns— that were supposed to put the dead to rest but have brought me back to life.
I suppose strife has a strange way of
wrapping itself within your genes
that even the nimble fingers
and remorseful lips of Death cannot undo.
I feel Death’s gaze peruse my skin;
trying to find the eye of the needle to
remove the thread of grief
but I will be buried with grief
as my only heirloom.

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