Yellow streams
of sickly light
filtered through
the drawn
window shades
like a
candles glow before
the edge of day.

Small
darts of dust
float in the air,
all suspended in
time like forgotten
memories.

So this is what death smells of….
of decay,
of cracked
odors that invade
the nostrils and
leave their pungent
sting, before fading
off into flaked paint
and peeling
wallpaper.

Of dark chest of drawers
holding a treasured
lock of his first
born’s hair;
a gold watch,
a token
of a
lifetime of service.

All like the fruit of
unripe persimmons;
pretty,
but bitter to the mouth.

A round mirror
hanging from a
veined wall, reflecting
Jesus
under which the
hopeful have come
to rest.

The ragged gasps
of life
blend
into the metered
rhythm of a desired rest.

A bedside table,
piled high
with white caped
containers,
all meant
to keep
the decay at bay.

I close my eyes and
half drift away,
thinking of the faded
black and white,
that held a man full
of life
and wishing
that it were still so.