on writing poetry...

I entered my sepulcher and blew out the candles,

sealed my eyes and ears shut with their hot wax,

wrapped myself up like a mummy in muslin,

then laid down to die.

This is the way to go inside.

To the kingdom where my secrets lie,

in the hush, in the dankness,

where the settlement of my deeds and thoughts

compost into memories.

Here is where I can find the pieces

to this puzzle you call poetry.

Deep inside the hidden darkness where

a buried heart-luminescence still throbs.

Oh no! I'm not dead! I'm just want you to think so...

(below are some revisions I made at 2am in the morning. think it is good now!)

I entered my sepulcher

and blew out the candles,

sealed my eyes and ears

shut with their hot wax,

wrapped

myself

up

like a mummy in muslin,

then laid down to die.

“This is the way to go, to get down to the inside.”

To the kingdom where my secrets lie,

in the hush, in the dankness,

where the settlement of my deeds and thoughts

compost into antique and esoteric memories.

Here is where I can find the jig-sawed pieces

to this mystery-puzzle you call poetry, which some believe

offers eternal life.

Deep inside the hidden darkness is where

a buried heart-luminescence still throbs.

Oh, no... I'm not dead! I just want you to think so..

Walking by outside on the street passersby

will read a sign put up by the curator on my mausoleum wall,

“Shhhh! Poet at work excavating!”