The dying of an old age
hangs above my pillow, bed
The yellow curtains of youth
Fold up like wrinkled, truth.
Skin on skin, rash
Burning aching, feeling
This yonder, future
This present past, infinite.
The rain comes down in droves now
The mist engulfs
The mornings unkind on the
Unhealed scars I can no longer hide, incite
Mortality ticks as aged beauty of ancient reeks
and the daisies on the curtains look like patches of white and mismatched green,
out of place, out of sync-different
The sun shines stronger now
as the whole world fades
and yellow curtains come down
Softly playing in the background is the air upon the empty shelves, upon the un-watered gardens, among the untended weeds.
No one is there to watch the daisies fall,
no one is here, to hear my last call.