the Blue Room

I wondered without
leaving the corridor,
with wide wind lingering, and
the feeling of everlastingness gone:

What will I be?
when you (wired up) leave on arms of fearless time that
makes me cringe in
anxious
await:

Riped, bitter plum, attempting to thrive
but
lacking
of strength

Sitting
on a table, and
swallowing morsecoded
suggestions
with

candles, melting
delivering
dim light
Turn them over, dear.


With hope left, grief-bottled
I believe you will arrive soon,
the train-tracks are rusty
and the wet dirt
serves
as a connection
with
senses

awakening
the parts
of bones
that
once
were
untold.