Death Throes

A bedside that wastes away

Upholstery whose archaic Victorian chime

seemed to reverberate a Queene’s last command

Up floats night-time dust faeries

restless above armchair’s dismal, enchanting

Now lingering spirit

between thought clouds and physical hold

-almost unreal-

“Imaginary” they disgust

A young maiden

-myself-

whose hand he holds

Slipping into a realm so very similar to his own

Abstract and thoughtful

With no word structures to convey

Him-

Hoped like a child

to be chosen

-manifested.

With a lingering energy

now cloud forms

My reminiscent energy

slowing with his

-a synchronicity-

as my hand drops from grasp’s reach

in submission to ruination’s dramatic end

“Farewell”

my whispers

-in an almost contentment-

Reach his fading form

Left

There is no soul

in the chamber of parting dreams.