La Valse du Ciel Mort

Posted on January 29, 2012

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I find myself alone in the kitchen.
The cold, white tiles glisten
in the last rays of the winter sun,
creating dim, ghostly silhouettes
of my hands and feet.
Light, in the early stages of decay,
filters through the windows,
casting ominous shadows on the faded walls.
The bare branches dance in that ghostly frame.
And the air, cold and dry as it may be,
is still a pool, or rather a river that runs
and rises.
The counters and cabinets are clean.
The scent of bleach lingers on the
stainless steel sink.
Soon the rain will fall
and I will no longer hang the sheets
to dry in the crisp wind.
The last sound I learn to savor is the clink
of the cat’s ceramic bowl against the tile.
Silence finds the minds of the aged:
a grim postcard from the dead.
Mute and blind is the world
where children are lost.
Their fingerprints and scribbles
scraped roughly with soap.
And yet, they remain.
Trapped.
Past and present intertwine
in the imaginary scent of cookies
and bleach. 
 
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