Dripping Death

I sit stunned,
masquerading my warm tears in bitter, glacial snow.
Ripped
under unforeseen, surreal reality
Writing the epitaph.
My tears impatient to fall any further
Fresh mascara dripping down my fine powdered face.
A white, newly blossomed rose
pinned down above my heart, onto my cypress-black flowing dress,
A film of charcoal dust settles on the already ashen-dappled clouds,
merging into the sapphire sky
Memories, regrets, whirlpool
in my hazed, mirrored illusions.
My tender eyelids drooping down with the weight of death
My soul, now feeble, clasped with chains of regret
that no warmth can melt.
The patron Saint silently secured in his closed hands,
the wreath, on his casket that still smells strong of varnish
Trisagion quietly echoes in the solitary road ahead to the hearse
Completing the rites and rituals of a respected burial
As the carriers trudge onto the fallen buds on the solitary road,
Nipped from their delicate pedicels. As I have.
The sun feels not warm enough, sonatas not mellow
desire feels not tempting enough, hymns not solemn
music feels not melodious enough, obsession not passionate enough.
My rose on your mausoleum, a prophet, to remind you of my love
No pillars stand to support my once so youthful canopy of will.
So many received bouquets, in which I hopelessly search one knife
To send myself to the same place of my departed
But fall down wild, desperate and forever parted…


J a s l e e n K a u r