Anita.
She was olive green
and coral pink and proud
that she could speak
in tongues so loud, but silent too
(such was her solitude)
as she used to sink
in and out, without
thinking much about it.
Her ballet shoes are torn, too,
worn and warm in bruised bandages,
poor arms turn blue:
no air can reach them.
Hand soft and shaking
seeming sweet with transparencies
no one can see.
Apparent veins snaking up arms
from nails - absurdly long,
no longer hidden beneath
silky evening gown gloves
as they used to be.
She held my hand in hers,
eyes blurred and glazed,
the colour of the sea and stormy skies.
Mouth open, closed, often gaping,
mumbles, moans, sometimes escaping
shrunken, toothless lips.
She'll be painted, tints of pink,
upon the small of a back,
youth in tact, preserved
reserved for the most intimate of hands
to reach behind and touch her...
tantalizing, feather kisses
sliding over smooth, excited skin.
Candles lit as we all sit
in tearful silence
roaring flames (her spirit)
two can play at this game...
She sits, proud, surveying
our sweet faces
smiling from her ceramic sanctuary
lotus blossoms bloom around her
surrounding her powdery
feather dust in sweet,
perpetual perfume.
Remember all the things she did,
all the things she was,
all the masks she hid behind
- as we all do, sometimes -
ocean eyes purposeful;
we never lost sight of you.
She was warm and comforting,
while eggs in cups
and ripe blue cheese
shouted atrocities
well into the night.
She is navy blue and silver,
shivering and standing tall,
until her back began to bend.
I'll wear her pearls with pride.
What does dying feel like?
Slippers slipping deep within
hospital covers, wet from
over-flowing water retention.
Carbonation wets her mouth,
she cannot speak to me,
but the flowers in her room
listen, hoping to relay
my tearful message when the day
is at its end
when the lights are dimmed,
and she can slip away,
so quiet, Death can't even hear her.
and coral pink and proud
that she could speak
in tongues so loud, but silent too
(such was her solitude)
as she used to sink
in and out, without
thinking much about it.
Her ballet shoes are torn, too,
worn and warm in bruised bandages,
poor arms turn blue:
no air can reach them.
Hand soft and shaking
seeming sweet with transparencies
no one can see.
Apparent veins snaking up arms
from nails - absurdly long,
no longer hidden beneath
silky evening gown gloves
as they used to be.
She held my hand in hers,
eyes blurred and glazed,
the colour of the sea and stormy skies.
Mouth open, closed, often gaping,
mumbles, moans, sometimes escaping
shrunken, toothless lips.
She'll be painted, tints of pink,
upon the small of a back,
youth in tact, preserved
reserved for the most intimate of hands
to reach behind and touch her...
tantalizing, feather kisses
sliding over smooth, excited skin.
Candles lit as we all sit
in tearful silence
roaring flames (her spirit)
two can play at this game...
She sits, proud, surveying
our sweet faces
smiling from her ceramic sanctuary
lotus blossoms bloom around her
surrounding her powdery
feather dust in sweet,
perpetual perfume.
Remember all the things she did,
all the things she was,
all the masks she hid behind
- as we all do, sometimes -
ocean eyes purposeful;
we never lost sight of you.
She was warm and comforting,
while eggs in cups
and ripe blue cheese
shouted atrocities
well into the night.
She is navy blue and silver,
shivering and standing tall,
until her back began to bend.
I'll wear her pearls with pride.
What does dying feel like?
Slippers slipping deep within
hospital covers, wet from
over-flowing water retention.
Carbonation wets her mouth,
she cannot speak to me,
but the flowers in her room
listen, hoping to relay
my tearful message when the day
is at its end
when the lights are dimmed,
and she can slip away,
so quiet, Death can't even hear her.