on an altar of varnished wood;
you lie in wait for the rot to move,
onto the remaining length of your body.
The wind brushes against your papery skin.
You have no control, nor any feeling;
life is a ghost that has left you; in
what now seems like a shadowy shell.
What you are, and what you were,
now do not concur;
with the mass of yellow that you’ve left behind,
with no blood to use as myrrh.
–No scent to lighten your fear–
No scent to fuel those tears,
are forced to remain here.