One does not begin to describe loss -
the words were never there.
It can be told from an army of saltine crackers
and music blasting static sorrows into
the thinnest air in town that
love left so quickly it didn't
wait for yeast to rise.
The Exodus was conducted first
and foremost to escape the stench
of a thousand first-born graves.
By rights, seventy days should be allotted
for I to lay in rags and spices in the
tomb of these four plaster walls.
Instead, I stumble through a city where
it's never rained, undead but for cruel sentiments sake,
where caretakers allowed by heart to rot
in the casket of my ribcage.
Yeast festers in the marrow of my bones,
for, loveless sinner, I, tasted never the
bread of life.
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