Phoenix

An open casket:

She is the skeleton.

Through the window I am an observer,

I do not wish to interrogate nor pry.

The rose tint, lost when that last petal fell

And left it tainted.

Why must the panes mourn also?

In their black shroud, their veil, through which

No light enters.

The dark escapes, like smoke,

And like smoke it dances through my lungs
In shadowy masqeurade.

With every breath I exhale ash.

With every breath I long for embers.

Canvas

I always made a point
Of staring into that window.
The image now smudged, lost

Like serpent's scales on a map of glass.
A reflected void
Inside its cheap frame of dull white,

Retaining nothing.

Timestamp

Scratch out the clock
When it no longer ticks.
But rather beeps in reluctance
At the days we lost
To different measures.

Numbers still cause the chime,
The familiar tone that rings
The ears of hospital beds
And takes away something of ourselves,
To remind us we exist
But nothing more.