Till death do us Part
My wife carries a basket of posies
to hide the stench of death on her person
not that my end would leave a scent
stronger than her perfume.
Even now, beneath the cold soft dirt
where worms and beetles crawl through the sockets
of my skull, the musk of her flora crowns
her like a nymph. Deceives me
So I wish to fall into her again, into
a not so loving embrace laced with agony.
The last image I see is the sharpened steel
through my chest painting the bone-white
of my ribs red.