Ballad of the Blowfly

here lies
abandoned flesh at the heart of blowfly song;
a frozen face, beneath the sun too long,
a story told in whispers.
she takes you home
in cold embrace; the keening of the flies
will fill the space inside your hollow head;
a ballad sung in turns will send you off —
and in death
you are a shelter,
a holy place,
this flesh no longer yours
but theirs instead —
a monument to the inevitable.
the spirit is gone but the story is not.
and in death
you are a vessel,
an empty space,
a body — nothing more
and nothing less.
take pride in the importance
she places in you.
her love is true,
a piece rehearsed with care —
beneath the earth,
in death; you are everything
you need to be.
here lie your bones in the wake of the summer.
empty eyes and flies the color of jewels
adorn a face cast aside by the end of a dream,
and the story you were
does not end —
here it begins.