Porcelain china doll skin
shows bright under stark yellow
fly bloated light.
I reach to take your hand
unaware your fingers have broken off in mine.
A silent victim becomes ash,
the twinkle in your eye once so green
now a melting pool of candle wax.
Under the onslaught of flame
your delicate lace bra strap
has fallen on your exposed shoulder.
Moving to fix it I fail to notice
the charred sackcloth once sundress.
Oblivious to smoke I see fresh mountain air;
a bountiful spread of vivacious hair
so eager to have fingers run through it,
now fallen away to soot.
An unnoticed television plays in the corner,
a sad box encasing flame.
What was once so good
shall always be now.
The glorious rays of paradise
bask me up and down,
reclining in the crematorium's coffin.
(c) 2013 p.hill
No comments:
Post a Comment