(Edited Version)

With worn down lips
its brittle smile won’t stretch
to softly brimming eyes
that sing a dirge inside.
It wilts at my fingertips;
the delicate bones shy
under
moth wing skin.

With the scent of withered
roses, an empty wake house;
wreaths and incense;
its laboured breaths echo
half remembered things.
Its gentle sweetness sours
on my tongue, leaves me thirsty
with a salty aftertaste.

It feels of waste, and ragged regret;
But I can’t let go of it
yet. I hold it in my afterthoughts;
it will love me in death. I let it go.
It slips into the solitude
of silent grey. In the chill
of veined marble
it will wait.










(Original Version)

Soft with wilted bristles
and brimming
liquid eyes that wet my fingers;
the delicate bones shy
under
drooping skin.

It smells of withered roses,
an empty wake house; wreaths and incense.
It whispers aching sighs
of words that make no sense.
Its gentle sweetness sours
on my tongue, and leaves me thirsty
with its salty aftertaste.

It feels of waste, and ragged regret.
But I don’t want to let go of it
yet. I hold it in my afterthoughts;
it will love me in death. I let it go.
It slips into the solitude
of silent shadows. In the chill
of veined marble
it will wait.