This Funerary Gift

I present you with a bouquet of silence:
a black corsage of night flowering blooms
that has no scent and whose pollen drifts
like grave dust in abandoned catacombs.

My heart and brain are mummified in jars,
preserved against a day of retribution,
when my sins will be weighed against a feather
plucked from your breast. There is no solution

to the riddle of the sands, when each grain
becomes a word in a soundless prayer
blown across the wasteland that was heaven,
where vulture-angels solemnise the air.

This funerary gift of love is all
but meaningless as glyphs carved on your wall.