Brief

Brief, caught I, the scent of my funeral pyre
Built by those without sense of that cleansing fire
That will have it's revenge on such spare limbs as I can recruit
To make dying not an end but a design.
So, my words ebb away on marvellous air, for the dead don't speak
And those words that might destroy, can be re-cast in a comfort that may seek
Nobility, in a heart of darkness that still bears a spark
Like the pure love of a stranger that still leaves it's mark
Like a kiss from the other world, languorous and sensual
An embrace in the chaste dark
And final thought, insensible.