bedsheet coffin

a corpse lies in my bed.

bathed in blue light, foggy eyes

stamped on an unmoving head.

it's growing fungus along the spine,

colored in reds, purples - fire and wine.

mushrooms lift from the sheets,

painting a skyline of decay, haunted

by that unearthly blue horizon.

light coming off that small device

embossed in still palms.

a simple, rectangular box, metal and silver

a coffin of it's own kind -

but somehow the picture i paint

is still beautiful, in a way.

we all die a little at night,

it's just the way the world turns.

so why not make death just

a bit more sublime?

after all,

we'll be dead a lot longer

than we'll be alive.