A whimsical jump is
a burial. The coffin is the
crinkled skin of old, once-russet
leaves, smelling like the
leather of ancient tomes,
the dust of ancient tombs.
An unimaginably worn sensation-
dry to the touch and
to crumble. This is the
sentimental solace between the sighs,
found in the heart of the grieving widow,
in the cast-offs of failed experiments,
in the writhing specimens
the omniscient microscope god.
This is the final ending-