It has scarcely been six months since
he climbed into the casket,
signalled the pallbearers,
and lowered himself into the fire.

Revival passed him the antidote in one hand
while poisoning him with the other.

Now he's at an intersection entombed in shrouds.
Four ways to walk, five ways to the grave,
at the corner of 11th and Spruce.
He takes the elevator to the sixth floor,
blood levels rising with the red numbers
above the metallic door,
eventually halting altogether in the ascent.

The cost of foreign hands is more than he should give,
but he'll give it anyways,
lying on that broken bed
in the skins of those who came before.

Their obituaries are etched into every inch of the
flame-licked walls, more deafening
than the eulogies they whispered
as they put him in the dirt half a year ago.

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