Thursday, April 12, 2007


cluttered floor and cluttered bed,
words implied but left unsaid;
coloured christmas-tree lights hung from the wall;
unconsciousness coming though sleep was called.

laying on bed with light hanging near,
laying on her lap, feeling her fear,
offering warmth in last hours of life,
a hand strokes my back. the most subtle knife

is one that holds back to drain it away:
they promised to help her, but could not stay.
the light shines downward on body in black,
I cease to purr as the hand turns to slack.

the book lays forgotten, page folded inside,
I stand and stretch, not seeing her eyes,
jump off the bed, tiptoe down the hall,
the world is so cold, and frightfully small.

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