the ugly writers

Your Sepulchre

There is a pulse— And what’s behind is no longer tangible.

Your Sepulchre

 

There is a pulse,
But there is no sound.
Can you hear it?

It is the dirt you shake loose,
the bloom of seeds you scatter.

Put a thumb against it and feel,
everything there is to feel.
Not a thrum, nor a vibrato,
keeping you absolved
from which dark, distant, corner
you’ve spilled blood on.

There is a pulse—
And what’s behind
is no longer tangible.

There is only you,
some trails of blood,
And a pulse.
That doesn’t much
make a
Sound.

 

If you liked Your Sepulchre, you will love Chelsea Yanga‘s previous work on The Ugly Writers:

the ugly writers

the ugly writers

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Chelsea Yanga
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