The greyish doom

of charcoal permeated cotton

Lies far, far above the pleated, dark sheets

where glisters shine pass

As through a hole being lighted

through the pores on the translucent sheets

Into the oil-painted stamps of golden glistens upon

with misty blurs of the curtains and beds

Like tattered fireplace

through the long nights ahead

Yet they hold fire after all

Its flames spent and ignited

Of ideas, cries, and existence fallen and in ash

In the gentle devour of burning time

How beautiful for the discarded it is

To go through like flashing headlights in the night

A brilliant glare, spark in front of the pages

Like half-time reminders of plays

A theater fully-lit in instants

Awakening away from the dull stage of night

Then sliding away fast

To silence the dins of lighting

And melt back into the dark act – the smoky doom

The funeral in merry roses

Through the tender fireplaces

Though nowhere to be seen

Up in ashes to the calm, infinite grey

Finally hugged in the intricate, soft tentacles of cotton