Dimly the light above
me flickers,
feeble,
like my heart.
Dust sparkles, diamond like
in the fleeting beams
of cold lights.
Antiqued books, with yellowed
pages and worn leather skins,
cratered by clumsy fingers,
line the dark oaken bookshelves.
A fine veil of dust covers their
naked skins.
The walls, they were once
beautiful, exotic vines crept up
their lenghts, punctuated by vivid
blooms.
But now, now they bare
a natural face.
Garments pealed and faded
blooms rest,
fragile and wrinkled,
at her feet.
A dark, gray room
in the final throws of death.
No life survives,
no light...
no pulse...
no thing, nothing save a
single
red
rose.
Summer
Spring
Winter
Fall
evermore she blooms.
Her thick oily petals
are smeared into the glass.
she was there
before I came.
She will be there
when I'm gone.