Skin

My skin is a mystery to me,
a thin shroud announcing my mortality -
a gift to sanctify and solidify
the terrible weight of death;
yet with it, too is a blessing.
As of now, you can still see
my dry eyes peering through the veil,
still smell death beneath the aroma
of spices and perfumes
still hold my hand, though cold
and stiff
but there will be a day when
you visit me
and the shroud hides nothing:
all that is left is the liturgical
remainder of a life consumed by the sacred.
And only the blessing remains.