Rothko’s Black Paintings before we knew what they really meant

Can death be poetic?

A white rose marrying the mind to the soul 

And in a flash–divorcing it–decay and rot 

A grave of dead wood encasing a corpse once

Full of dreams now pressed onto paper

Preformed as an eulogy even ghost’s screams

Can’t haunt into a reality

.

But mourner’s tears 

Trap the same salt that suffocates 

The people that’ve died before me

Before my mind that forgot to

Separate from my body,

It chimes it’s thoughts without oxygen, without blood

.

An existence in a void 

I say nothing for there’s no one present

No mouth to choke out the words

My heart stays inside my body all

Wrong for half is here, wanting 

.

To live and the rest has already–