Sylvia Spits a Eulogy

Sylvia fucks, but still

I find method to her madness.

She calculates the crazy,

makes archives of the sadness

She marks, on a red calendar,

nine lives to repossess.

Sylvia sleeps, and whispers,

and dreams of sticky pearls.

Even drowned in dirt and ash—

she’s such a pretty girl.

I drink her up like liquor

as she lets her breath unfurl.

Dying is an art, and Sylvia

is Munch, if not Monet.

Does she terrify herself?

Does she lie? Does she pray?

Does she follow in the footsteps

of Woolf, or Hemingway?

Sylvia mouths her lilac dreams—

dark romances and crimes.

Moths flee out her open mouth

which spews sweet flowering vines,

and I think she follows nothing

but the predecessing rhyme.

The method to her madness

is synonymous to grief,  

like catacombs are organized,

but offer no relief.

So, Lazarus of listlessness,

we follow the motif.

Still I sort the method,

still, in disbelief.