Though death be a day
The sun merely raises its glow
To suffuse the night while
In a room of silent smoke
Low candles hunger for
The blood of burns and
The death of flames.
Your eyes
The hours most love
Penetrate the evening with
Bright clairvoyance.
Watch him
Strapped to his cynicism and
Brooding with early flowers
That pluck at his flesh With
Chained petals.
Shadows form
Thrust in darkness
The shape of his killing hands
Cries
Splattering on walls in
Point blank flashes of light.
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