The dewlap of contamination was inexorable for you,
The surreptitious cloud demolished the center
Of your respiration, your lungs.
Cancer, cancer, my star sign, your demise.
You cringed beneath the burden of your fears
And regrets. When you died, meager tears
Fell, anesthetized, on my layer of florid skin.
I lost the key then. My larder of holy creed
Was buried in that hot day of late August
With your deformed, swollen by heat
Figure. Unrecognizable. Smelling of putrid.
A failed embalmment.
”Two years more, two, grandfather’s doll
To see you graduate, you the eminent student
The first in your class, the pride of this kin”.
At twenty you believe, you try to instill
Life in an old body, with consistence of plasticine.
”You will, you will, you fight and you win”.
Twitchy and incongruous inaneness of juvenescence.
”My Immortal”, just a tune, perishable as its Evanescence.
33 prayers, a plastic basin full of spat blood.
Not now, not now on my night turn. If it is to be,
Make it lately. Not with me.
Coward traitor. Rise up or fall down,
No more torment for all.
The obliterative choice of doom. Others’ turn, me at home. Midnight movie, The Ring, one. Then, real horror.
A dry, short statement. A jump over the fence
That separates two homes, two families, one now with less a soul.
Closed eyes, nothing new. Saw it before, listen tightly as then
For a stifled and barely audible breath.
A lit candle held by a wrinkled hand, next to your bed.
Anguish. Disbelief. Cuddle this motionless body.
Still warm, can’t be dead, a corpse is frozen. Hold your dull-witted breath
As to stiffen your shriek. To resist the click
The first lost affection, the one that never punished,
Or judged, or…Make it vanish.
This idea of ever unrepeated sorrow.
It is a pleonasm. One truly shallow.
Others lost so much more, pieces of their soul,
Flux of their blood.
Never the same again. So what, so what?
”The life is no rainbows”, do abandon the old brat
Who thought a magical faith could change a fated path.
Two decades, the perfect age to give birth to doubt.
And questions, and senses. To feed the maturity’s mouth.
It’s been seven years, your sacred number, now let it go.
It is serene. Just serene. All.