The sickness has returned
That cold steel
The taste of copper
The smell of decay
Began to write again.
Deadly quiet
The wind suddenly breezes with the softness of death.
The moon looks down and highlights the ground between the buildings.
The eyelids that tuck you in like blankets.
The gash feels warm and the crimson pool that you lay in floats you on its surface above the snow; and reflects like a black mirror.
He wore all black.
His face was in shadow.
His hands were wrapped and his smile was serrated when he embraced you.
The animals in the alley were your audience/ as you gave your all and one only performance.
The applause was fading like footsteps in the night.
Your last breath was like steam.
The snowy white roses fall all about you.
Winter is almost here. But, not before the fall.
“When the sun sleeps, I live”.
He kisses his fingertips and blesses you.
You are his villain.
He’s moving south.
For you it’s a moment.
For him it’s only Tuesday.
He’s going home.