the slow art of breathing bitter

Conclusion

When the low whistle of death echoes in my ears

through the walls of fear and agony,

in my torn heart—

Everything scatters in a matter of seconds,

as the lights blow out.

The air mourns in the yawning blue

of trampled irises and Picasso portraits.

Leaves swirl away in the dust storm—

There's still a subtle shadow in the curve of the wind.

The ink dries, and the pages fly

Away, away, out into the dark emerald woods,

Birds screaming, my heart's thrumming;

I couldn't figure out the silhouette behind me.

The room's cold in chaotic silence.

As I say to myself:

"The conclusion's not too far!"