The cheeks of my mother

I lie in a wicked silence,
with darkness
consuming every crook of this casket.
I can picture my mom outside,
With her tear stained cheeks;
I wonder if it’s raining,
If the skies are grey,
Or maybe it’s a sunny day.
With this funeral
like a blotch of black ink
on a white canvas.
After all,
monochromes are always loved.
Aren’t they?
Exactly like how,
we always find the night sky beautiful

You see,
we look for beauty in tragedy;
the night sky is nothing
but a cemetery for broken stars.
And I wonder,
If that makes me beautiful?
As my bones become hollow
and as maggots shred my skin
I wonder,
If there are going to be verses
carved on my rotting corpse.

I never hated death.
I thought death would
bring me answers as gifts
that life couldn’t yield,
but now that I embraced it tight enough
I don’t feel the nostalgia of life,
instead, I feel familiarity with death.
Almost as if,
‘living corpse’ was synonymous to me,
almost as if,
the canvas wasn’t white at all,
almost as if,
I had a constant shade,
for all my sunny days.

I feel my casket being lowered,
minute by minute into the ground.
And as my heart withers,
like colorful petals
hitting the ground
imitating falling meteors;
I wonder,
If I were to live another day,
would you let me,
have the sunshine back?