Residue
Often, what remains is fateful. But should we tempt it, for posterity?
I don’t know when the power went or when the breeze was spent but I found myself on the bed and I could see the eyes, dead closed, but for a tiny pulse dregs of life would convulse. A silent breath was rained on spat by the twice-dead air con, the motor hum of blades, caregivers from the rusting fan, mingling rivers of a soul now fainting in a plume and the air refreshing the room. Old curtains bellowed ancient motes of dusty songs in farewell notes, withered red, motheaten maroon frayed hems filter frozen moon in moonlight slivers, silver shines on sheets of cotton, clumped in lines. Oh, I was there, but then I was not lying on the frame of tinder cot the spark had died, a phase was out the headrest cried but couldn’t shout and then I read, in faint, dead scrawl what life I’d lived, the life of fall: Here I lie an empty soul searching for his own ghoul a mechanical husk left behind by the concrete yields of golden yore steeped into the molten waters to decoct the seeds of mortal core hindered on his hunt again by fluid blocks on city road a faulty code Here I lie.
