composure of a corpse

would it be porcelain,

freed from desire?

perhaps it would

strangle one,

the brightness of

serenity

would it crystalize,

like water,

in the freezing placidity

of limpid dispassion?

perhaps it would

breed of nothing as

a sterilization, as

a flourishing asylum

of infertility

would its enormous,

comfortable,

pellucid tentacles

wrap around one in

gnarly shawls of

wet tranquility?

perhaps it would

decompose one in

the numb quietness,

like the composure of

a corpse