Unborn
He felt waves of color
wash from his heart-
crimson flowers wilted;
leaving behind nothing
but bleached shadows...
like a scythe the half moon
sliced across the evening sky
tattering the swarthy fabric
into whip-like ribbons
that ravaged the night...
this, then, is how time dies-
numbed from exposure
to a sullen murky mist
that slowly eats away at life
like acid devours pages in a book...
but, then, what proof is there
that life was ever lived-
for though his tongue tasted
the wine, it dissolved into
scarcely a bitter memory...
and like a candle without flame,
a bird stripped of song,
a woman robbed of her radiance-
he became but sheer existence
unseen; unheard; unloved.
