From somewhere way beyond midnight
a breeze sifts gentle but true
through an open window.
A candle blows a fatal last kiss
before plunging the room into darkness.
The breeze, lively now and Jack Frost cold,
hugs him like a spoilt child.
It kisses him from numb lips to frozen toes
and skips a tormenting dance along his spine.
His heart – an igloo, a derelict furnace –
beats no more than four in four.
Death march. Dirge.

Once strong now weak.
Muscles decayed, now hangs sinewy flesh,
Red-sore, purple veined.
Hairless and airless.
In the darkness, pain has an image.
You didn’t get the chance to kiss her goodbye.
You could only watch from the window
As she dissolved in the light,
Like an aspirin into water she went.
Matter into purity, dissolving and concentrated.
Both matter and purity.

In the distance the sound of a crying baby dies
And gone is the occasional bark of a worried dog.
The wind picks up again – audible - and blows
Fragmented memories through the open window.
Do you swear you can smell her perfume on the breeze?
Of course. She is the breeze now.
She is all and all is she.
Have I gone? Is this what it is like to be gone?
How painlessly boring is death,
with nothing to do but wait to be born again?
Born again into space
Or dissolve and become like she
A fragmented memory

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2008