When she has shattered my life
and turned all the pages to ash;
still she comes with her sickle,
She is the voice
that I will purge,
her figure and her form,
I will neglect
Until the strands of time
enwrap her. Until
my mouth devour her.
And the digestion of a thousand days’ time,
will diagnose me something awful;
And I wail where she can’t see me any longer,
I have buried her body in a textual transmission.