Inextricably bound,
our lives pass through straws;
externally opaque tubes,
revealing little to the observer.

I thought you
were rusting
in the blue
felt-lined box.

Neat dovetail
joints framed
your bespoke
resting place.

But, brass
doesn’t rust,
it only stews like
over-brewed tea.

And tarnished,
arthritic valves
no longer wheeze
a tune from you.

I wonder,
if you ever
graced a noble
stage,

or simply
bled in the
hands of a
dilettante.

I hope for
the former,
I couldn’t
bear the latter.

A leaf, drenched and torn;
spins through apathetic gullies.

Thin veins pump pulp;
scrivened sheets, knotted in repose.

In the card-stiff stillness,
trapped between sentiment and truth;
the creaking jaw whines.

The chef is dying,
limp between starched white sheets.

Sour cream drips
from breathless meringue;

fading whites,
deathly pallor.

Puddles and pancakes -
the menu of the day.

As bland as cloth-strained milk;
a deluge of curd free effluvium runs free.
No cheese, no future.
Just the aroma of decay.

A shadow that aches;
tremulous against the cleansing of light.

Disembodied substance.
The cogito?
Or secrets wrapped in secrets,
the invisible reality.