Lullaby as I bury myself deep by Hilary Tam (14, Hong Kong)

In the frothing marsh. 
It has grown tiring to avert my gaze from dead men on bank notes; 
Restraint upon casting a weightless name into the dusk, 
Have three syllables swallowed by the horizon and eviscerated by a mulberry sun.
At least bathed in silt and muddy waters a broken body is validated by dregs of a forgotten sea; 
I am made one with the bog, sealed by the sedges’ kiss 

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And worthlessness comes from dirt-splotched flesh and not the face.
Parchedness is 
Overrated;     here salt tears taste 
Sweet and anoint a brittle tongue. 
Come, now; the shovel is your sceptre 
And the gnats crown a martyr like a halo. 
Tomorrow they will find your shadow as ripples in the cerulean 
And your soul curled amongst a bed of wet marigolds. 
Listen closely to the     dirge: remember the trail of footprints in the cedar, how palatable misery sounds in a song. 
You were always     one for the picturesque; 
Now you lie braided with the soil, 
The purulence of sin washed from your limbs– amalgamated with the Earth from which saints rose; born again 
Sleep, honey;     no one will lay flowers at your submarine grave

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