Crowned in (Floral) Vice

Embalmed in rotting utterance
I, as flesh, invoke
The most pointed anguish
Poured on the Earth — ravaged by blood
Shrouded in myrrh and sage
I, as mind, have vision
Of spectres with voices like war cries
Condemned to groaning sleep
Crowned in floral vice
I, as spirit, burn alive
And see your form — reflection of my own:
Both alike. Both perverse