Perfect

when death lies
on your bed
next to you,

lies that life
is blossoming,
the children
are laughing,
and old folks
are singing
about a time
that past,
about a human
race that is
run down,
obscured,
sickened
with no cure,
morals
out the door,

as a shadow flickers
from the ceiling fan,
death holds your hand
tells you he understands,
as you tell him, that she
has been the biggest
burden,
when you came
pinched the flicker-
flame wick, fingers
closing a life, light
of my life, when

her eyes would
read to the mood
of our love,
so precise, yet
fragile
so impatient, yet
temperamental,
so content, yet
fearful

and death took her,
when I wasn’t looking
at a perfect time,
when I was lifting
the fruits;
my roots of a tree
that withered
like the gloom of Eden,
from green to a burnt
oven-gold.

Comments

Jwritespoetry222

so good 

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