Lethargy
crept up on me
in the beginning,
in a slithering,
sordid sort
of way.
Retreating,
the opening,
the closing doors kept
repeating
themselves
and left me
depleted;
porous woodwork,
ashen, decrepit;
the walls that wept
dust mites
in the absence of
a keeper,
in the absence
of light.

What a wicked way,
what a thing to say

to a skeleton in his grave,
rattling sporadically,
stench of love decayed.

Gracefully laid down,
head full of gray clouds,
reserving respect
for all those dead sounds,
keeping kindness
for my pallid hounds.