The room is dark.A staccato click,
A momentary spark.

Not Hope.

Death’s deceitful warmth is inhaled.

Ghosts, like mist, only hot,

Egress living orifices like they were 

Slinking out of sepulchers. 
The room is depressing.

A glimmer in the dark,

The reflection of a pulsing bright spark.

Not Relief. 

Death is corked in green glass.

There is a transfer from

One container to another –

A container susceptible to breakage.
The room is dreary.

A pop, the ground seems to evanesce 

The air feels lighter.

Not Ecstasy. 

Swirls of exhilarating air enter from cracked crooks and crevices.

Contaminated pipelines are further fouled,

Clogged with venom like nightshade berries –

Heretical prayer beads Death invoking. 
 The room, one day, fell still and went cold. 


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Writer, editor, human being.

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