Mortality

What trouble this body

poor vessel for my soul,
and tawdry, wet
with dirt and sweat
and more, secrets
from the deep, moored
in corpuscular rafts
swirling in circles,
held in by skin
a tangible thing,
and common: mere
cells, bones, teeth
grafted into some
present-day urn.
 

And when the vessel

cracked--a gasp
of blue turned red,
surrendered to earth.




***
Prompt=line from another poem. Peace...