dawn hangs low today, its
golden whisper faint, breath
harboured deep in thought,
its drowsy light drips
down onto the armchair
where, in his worn hands, he holds
silk-sheets and a bottle of wine, flickering
and grainy around the edges
and sitting on his bed, a woman from forever-ago
is dressed in her finest sepia, glass in hand
everyone is placid, frozen, still
for laughter will not escape this room
for this is purely a memory etched in celluloid,
a memory captured in time-withered skin
a memory that burns cold under naked-tongue,
spurred by a primal thirst and a nagging revere
for love, which has trickled away
and buried itself under lashings of trickery
and this place once dripped
with decadence, persian rugs
floating on currents of
fine champagne and amethyst
now, bottles pile up, mirrors flicker
money ebbs and flows
and he lights another pipe,
lungs heaving under
***** and avarice
and lust
love
...its final fleeting moments...
are etched only on film
blanched and faded of colour
laying parched under the oblong sun
