I am rigor mortis now ( part one )

My head is, an inch, near a loop Of a hanging rope, A tear is, on a verge of my eye, Upon slipping. My soul is ruggedly drying as an Oat bread Ascending its fragments with Umbel's nectar to The lunar heaven. I begin to swallow my breath, My heart started lisping, my skin prickling With reflections of the day, The noons open their mouths With every mourn lament. I haunt myself down as I usurp death, I took his power when my chin touched The indelicate halter. I am rigor mortis now.