Bleeding cries of death's lullabies
shatter the morning calm
there is no escaping death
or the soft turn of dawn's light
spun to feeble hands and breathless

~ still ~

among a manic stumble of pleas
dreams turn dark, reality darker
and black suits are coming
red ants marching onward
for this silent vessel, that
no longer reads the palms
seeking answers from the universe
no longer is this (real)m home

Her corpse lies cold
beneath fleech blankets
stale and still, hands stiff like stones
with eyes fixed upon the gates of heaven
or nowhere at all, I can't be certain,
my faith in these things
is marked by question
broken like pottery, held like sacrament
against a somber refrain
and the ravens have come
dressed like black Sunday

She is a signature on a framed certificate,
ether or ash, an amethyst sky
burned into the psyche

She is a fucking memory ...

Apryl Skies  ©2011

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