I am rigor mortis now, death should not be worn black /part two/

It was not on a count of blueness, It was not on a count of despair, But a fly with echoing buzz between The ribs of my wooden chest; As I will to tear my heart open And still hear its wavering wings. Cause brains ought to live And my mind is echoing thoughts On every single breath; I am ceaselessly wont to uncypher The Mortals, the eddies of existence, The long rusted chains of life The blueberries, the fiddlesticks, The different glances of the sun At every noon and morn. The muted tinge of the dusk, The misted dawn Till I consumed all the dots Of my brain. When I wished the dust could cuddle me, And the stars Could wrench my immortality. When the dirt became so comforting, And the worms became so warming. It was not fate, it was not divinity But the most ridiculous unsurety That sentineled me; I had been a memory given Of the lilies, the moulting sunsets, The aerial unexpected smiles At the onerous noons. The dear and the dearest. The air before the sill of the fall. The winsome, the most childish dotty dreams. I tiptoe endeavoring To touch the pinky finger of the beatitude Uncertaintly-