The bed holds a dying man
This bed, it holds one dying man
Who resolves to fight the dying of the light
In at once a poetic and sanctimonious way
The same way a spider struggles
When crushed in some toilet paper
After innocently walking on the wrong cold bathroom floor –
Struggling in the just flushed toilet
With his one remaining good leg,
Against the dying of the light.
How can the world revolve without him?
Purple are the flowers
Purple are the flowers that we have trampled beneath out feet.
White is the cadaverous moon, carved to a sliver and watching us without caring.
Red is the blood that pumps lukewarm in our dying skin.
Copper is your flesh that rests no longer in my arms but beneath my eyelids remains.
Green is the sea that roils between you and me.
Orange is the autumn of our lifeless lives.
Brown are your eyes and blue are my eyes and a blue-gray storm is our mingling tears.
Purple is the wine mischievously mislabeled red for centuries
Golden is the sun that rises upon our trash heap lives
Until one day
It doesn’t anymore.