A GRAVEYARD SHORTCUT------- again

Feeble hours, like rows of flowers
executed days replace
awful smiling burning gazes
I wear the blackest crow
as I am  the sainted darkest thing

 these people
hold my hands
count the fingers and thumbs
 in case im not the same

now in aged stripped time
I crease in folded paradigm
placed under the stilted tombs
crushed as the mortal kiss
is blessed upon the willing lip

This hurried visitor will not leave
  pleasure in indecision
paints the gothic artist vision

on Wood or stone
marble throne
chaste written verse
spat as a hex or curse
follows the caustic burn

count my fingers