Snide eyes arise, ain’t them bodies being some kinda saints again?

Buried deeper still to fill their plain ‘white’ blank canvases in – a secretive eulogy built outta nothing all that eerily strange anymore, even if she still grapples at beneath the heaving undergrowth, begging themselves to artificially resurface, poised purpose…

Splintered nails, these naval-gazing, thieving, ethereal people with attentive details resounding right by competitively listening ear-pieces – okay to be dead, eager and, above all else, beneficially buried this time

If only for her bare-naked baby, which lies vehemently within the overhead tragedy of the bristle ‘n’ breeze of the whistle-stop trees, they wouldn’t cry their crystal clear tears from so very far away

Simply grasping at inescapably suggestive tumbleweeds, she feels a piece that he fails to feel

She feels me…