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?

How?

 

 


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

And

Golden is the sun that rises upon our trash heap lives

Until one day

It doesn’t anymore.

 

 

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