Guided

A song of blissful grief

Sometimes you die
and it tastes just like it's meant to,
the bitterness you expected
lost to the shadows,
a sweet hum on your lips,
a milky temptation
working its way
through each one of your limbs,
a birth in the exiled manor
of the birds that saw you
in the shadow of their flight.

You can't help
but look upwards,
although it is clear
direction has been erased,
warped from this mind
at dis-ease,
a time for ripening thoughts
to wither
and be composted
with old dreams and diaries,
burnt to the ground
in sacred rites
that somehow smell
like a lavender prayer.

It feels alive
when you die.
That is the secret
they've been keeping from us.