Mattressed in a sleep, an old man sorrows in a dream.
In a corner, a crooked chair, a knotted table
Covered with papers all brambled in ink; bearing some
Correspondence with a departed one,
Tears on the grain of floorboards, cocked askew by aging nails.
A new morning, wind gagging on the mouth of a dawn,
Unfeeling in it, he awakens to curtains panning a window for light;
Arises, stepping carefully through his emotions,
He’s tasted the malignity of death,
Its black spikes embedded in his heart, his mind-
They had an efficiency like the lives of the dead,
Sallowed faces simmering in the cauldrons of the living.
He now of paperweight and featureless,
Linen peeling off a clothesline;
Soon, soon the grave hole will be filled with his skin.
And his smiling woman, whose brain filaments burned out,
And their sons with neat mustaches shoving her into a dirt hole;
He prays to be with you,
He hears your red heart beating, awaiting.
Dying is easy, she says, I did it exceptionally well.
Needles grain his skin in the still, morning air,
White sheets and a distant loudspeaker,
He sips the hospital air; a medicinal hogshead to swig;
Dying. A statue with scars and remembrances,
Last tear narrowing down his face. She always knew.
Copyright © 03/17/18 lance sheridan®