This is an improv off of "I died for beauty-but was scare" by Emily Dickinson. This stanza maintained an interesting rhyme scheme for me: abcb, and I wanted to improv off of that, while using "adjusted in the tomb."
When adjusted in the tomb,
it's hard to come back.
You think, it's okay, touched
by another's small dead slack
for a hand. It sat there
crying like a little girl,
hoping melting skin and washed
skin wouldn't unfurl
itself to the window and clean
the breeze of leaves, too bunchy
for the rest- not enough spice
or not enough crunchy.
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