my research into death

On the 49th day of my bardo I'll climb into an ugly womb to be expelled with all the sticky things, my histories flushed down the drain. And I'll enter this world again just as I have at least 913 times before dressed in waxy skin belonging to the wind.

This is the door I'll choose: orange like the angry sunset protests over times neglectful motions- chased behind tall buildings of a city gone betray me.

I'm painfully enlightened by its cracks, my fingers trace in spiraled patterns spelling out my old discarded names.

I'll enter the doorway knowing to forget the sea and leave its mystery for someone else to worship.