The wake 
is like a funeral pyre

a howling wolf fighting 
eating empty stomach
famishly starved
trying to burn light
out from the dark


"It is a bliss
in the deep"
it thinks,
this creature,
while being
and wanting 
to stay 
a longer while


From the deep 
it thinks
"If I too should surface
I would see you 
up there
in a tree,
writing a poem
no one might ever see"


But just if lucky
like a destinated leaf
on a bare scraped winter's tree
the note would fall discretely 
come swirling down
and would be caught
instantly 
agape



This
would feed 
the whole 

underworldly 
beast

 into exist