You neglected the rusted shard,
above my floating ribs,
beyond my left ventricle clogged with anguish.
A scared black mark
a mistaken splinter
outside of London
ahead of the fog.
Coroners without fresh flesh,
a casket dream, the scars from sleep,
just south of the Hearse dealership
where a dead man climbs into his new
Across from the mansion,
and the man shunned,
and his exile, and opposition, and ghost
scrambling in vain
under blood-stained linens
towards a cursed sentence
where I was sent once.
The Venus I once upheld,
left me deserted in the wrong graveyard
and struck me with sharp shrapnel,
adjacent to my dysphoria,
but a long way off from the afterlife.