Death in a room
his eyes are blackened tomb
everything ends dark, as it began in the womb
Born out of a wound
sewn by the desires of still having youth
But how long do we have, the many breaths
till death's stench—our time is so few

Dire hours; heaven's closest bird to their gates
rising to her, the same straits angels fell
The sight of which, burns all of my face
Earth was just a light version of hell, sometimes
as with tiny little devils in your head, exploiting
your days

Dearly disturbed—don't wake him up too soon
he's just resting his eyes, from seeing another
distaste for life. Wipe away his tears with a pillow
that soaks all his cries. Let him slip away into a
day's night

Doses of depression, he's on the drug of sadness
wrapped in linen—leaning on the leisure of
a moment's death. Given time to be called by
value. Soon after he rises.

             The sad Lazarus.