Tearing soul from body in death must be like separating the egg whites
from the yolk after the egg is already scrambled
Still, it happens.
An actuality of the punctured state of grace.
To say that the spirit has been released to a better place is only searching for protection
from the weight
of the empty body, cold without its breath. Left to rot in the ground.
It cannot be made right
until it is
I covet my body (imperfect) which will someday be pulled piece by piece
from my soul. This shattering
of me is grief. It is transgression unveiled
The Color of Compromise
The Snow Child
Things Fall Apart