immaterial,
your soul
would not look
beautiful—
for what on Earth is
that presupposed
pith
but your
sour grapes, mixed
with denial
of death? It's less
vigilance
than standoffishness—
emboldened,
made whole,
and given
carte blanche to go
out on the prowl.
If it perchance
could corporeally
exist,
the misanthropic look
in its rude,
aloof eyes would
probably insist:
I'm too good for this
charnel house.
Or worse:
nothing you can
lose here
even matters
anyhow.
