|Rain drifts down like mottled ash, muting sounds,
While the bleached candles spit like feral cats.
Cars slither down the grey road; Umbrellas
Unfurled like black slugs.
Leaves coat the pavements in a tarry mucus.
Ignoring the hail-like footsteps pacing:
I clutch closed the shutter, iron-wrought, smooth.
The fire creeps.
Softly my brain is turning to butter,
A printed slab of gold, sarcophagus.
I peel off a sliver with my fingernail
And taste it.
And calmly smiling, sharp teeth reflecting light,
The fumes reel and dance around the red room.
Velvet blackens, sirens sound in the night.
The embers shudder.
© Copyright 2012 JPhilip123 (UN: jphilip123 at Writing.Com).
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