I. Denial
There is no pain.
Look not unto the grave; the dead can feel nothing.
Look upon the one who stands watch; throw your garlands upon his body
Wreaths and roses
More and more, until his back is broken.
Then leave him.
Leave now to soak in bliss and sin,
And know he did forswear this.
Cut eulogies into his skin,
And trust he will forgive us.
Count his white hairs with a grin
And claim he did forget her.
Look not to the hands that burn for his blade
More and more
Look not to the wings that remember the sky
More and more
Heed not the wind as it cries, for it tells only lies
Of peace beyond the count of days
Where there is no torment, there is no truth and
There is no pain like his.
