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.