Cimmerian Fog

My mind is not black.
My mind is not black, even
if my words are ashen.

I write about a Cimmerian Fog,
but I am not black.

I have been carved like a pumpkin.
I am dying just like that.
Every day, I sit on a porch
waiting to start the process of rot.

It is slow,
and so I move like honey
wishing to be baked in a hot, hot oven
where warm hands will pull
me out hungrily
and eat me.

When Teeth Grind

When teeth grind
sleepily, a soul is angry.
A rotten part of a potato.

When a soul is
angry, death is Over.

Do not fear.
Do not panic.
Do not grieve.

Death is Over.

When death is Over, shoes
do not matter, but
He is felt sorry for.

So, He goes. Into the Earth
like a potato
to rot.