Cackling at death.
As if a hundred poets,
Or thousand philosophers,
Could martyr to break the veil.
As if some could write of her,
My closest lover.
Fie!
I do not need your empty carcasses.
I’ve my flock,
To tend to.
Red strings.
Tethers to my spirit,
To ensure clean hauntings.
My precious ghosts.
My Flock.
