An antiquarian silver spoon,
hidden in an old treasure shop.
A desire to caress the spoon,
to touch and feel the silver.
The spoon feels alive in her hand,
as if she once touched the spoon.
An image of herself so unfamiliar,
laying down on an unknown sofa.
A dress of white adorned with
many light roses moving down.
A noise from behind awakens her,
as the book slips from her chest.
The spoon above her,
a flash of colour,
then cold nothingness.
Seeing herself dead,
looking at his face.
The man she already knows,
blood dripping from the spoon;
her fiance holds the knife.
Head bowed. Sitting. Waiting. The clock ticks loudly. Time can never be fled from even in death.
The smell of anti-bacterial solution numbs the senses and leaves a sense of sadness in one’s thoughts.
Sitting tensely. Waiting. Flatlining beeps and screams of urgency. Head moves skyward.
Anguish grips the chest. A knowing that this is the end. Numb feelings and recollections of little things about that face.
Waiting for answers. They never come. Time passes. Fatigue sets into her bones. A person arrives. Trepidation increases. Waiting for her world to shatter. Knowing sadness. Overthinking it all.
The person says, “Come with me…”
The silence between them. Phantoms wait for sadness to come so that they can feed and devour the stench of heartache.
One look. He is not there, yet a body on the bed stays still. Sheets of white. Cold flesh. Death has come to her love.
Her world softens as a kind hand touches skin. Even now she feels love. “You will get through this…” She knows she will, but what of her love?
When we go the universe won’t waste our energy,
for nothing is wasted by her.
She keeps secret treasures until the time ends.
you sit at that mahogany desk you love
diligently researching paranormal things
you look for an answer in what isn’t clear
sadness is cruel to your feverish heart
you miss me, I know this very very well
I miss you and hold on in this place still
you held me in the last moments of life
I remember all your words and actions
you feel my touch, but I do alarm you so
I whisper in your ear, “Be my lungs, love.”
you look pained and move so violently
I cannot catch you as you fall from me
you left those papers to be with me today
I’m sorry but it had to be this way, my love
you see me now, but there is much horror
I felt that way too, yet the horror will pass
you say, “It was always you here close.”
I say with conviction, “Yes. Always close.”
you look at me and I look you and we see
we see the love we have for each other
so many shapes move
dark sets into the night
she’s no longer herself
light of those eyes dies
suffering seizes control
starlight begins to fade
she gave birth, but not life
darkness took all the light
In the snow.
The seat is bare, except for you and a few tidy possessions.
You’ve been down this road before; broken and broke.
There’s nothing like poverty to make you feel like you’ve made the wrong choices. Yet, you are liberated now; free on this bench in the snow.
You think, “How beautiful the snow is as it falls. If I was more familiar with words I would articulate this scene with more purpose and beauty, but I cannot convey this. This is a photograph or a painting…”
Still, in the snow, you don’t notice the gun against your head until the jolt ends the falling snow for you.
Your last moments: broke and broken; beautiful and sad; thinking of the falling snow.
What beauty in your death. Death on the bench in the snow full of a fading glow. Until the light turns to darkness. Then you get the chance to do it all differently.
under the soil.
you lay under the soil surrounded by the sounds of insects moving and water soaking into the soil.
under the soil, there is a wooden box.
you lay in the wooden box with roses that once blossomed and bloomed, yet now lay in petrified pieces upon your chest.
under the soil alone
you remain perfect in your chest of what once bloomed so beautiful and bright.
under the soil your blossom and bone.
you remain silent and still as the stars and the moon sing their song to you.
blood drips from the knife
such beauty winter graces
she stands in the sea of pines
a silent face within the snow
dripping red on to white
a merlot or is it a shiraz?
he will never know love’s taste
stabbed to death in the snow
darkness is close
moonlight shows her face
she waits for the one to arrive
death may come too soon
the knife is close
it is done
Art by Rebecca Larst
The air is fresh upon her heart;
the sea feels cool today.
She’s looking out and back again,
for the world is different.
The air is full of silent screams;
the sea hears them well.
She’s horror-struck at the sound,
for death is so close now.