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