the tower

You would box me up in damp and heavy earth
to slowly rot; my absence brightly marked
for all to see, on days of guilt and duty.

I would lay me on a tower built of stone
and, rather than sing songs of rest eternal,
I would call the birds to feast on flesh.

You would hide my painted face and frozen lips
to hold a warmer memory of me;
politely dead and yet, for you, alive.

I would take my comfort seeing bone and blood,
my cold and sparkless inessential carcass,
giving life to life for life to come.

You would pay to fill a space with flower heads
and feed a hundred hazy grieving shades.
And all to prove to them your love of me.

I would show my love in every lonely silence,
through each dragging moment of your absence.
And the loss would still my world to hush.

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