In Memoriam

I know when I open the door

the rooms will be empty, and dusty.

Their dust has long been scattered, washed

from the river into the sea;

there’s just the photo on the wall.

I know that I must turn the key,

yet I stop and raise my hand to knock

as though someone still waits for me.

The streetlamp in front sputters and glows

unsteady in some Morse like code.

A car’s long hand on the horn

skims down from the end of road,

the silence inside screams once, and twice

and then goes into rustling mode.

I turn the knob, the portrait is there

just that it's a bit more yellowed.

The light’s a whisper of the dark -

the frizz of smoke blown from its lips.

Silk thin shadows their edges blurred,

a sunmoonstar in reversed eclipse;

the dust a plume of a lonely search

paused before some rambling scripts

and death’s life with its grim mouth pursed

drumming the silence with fingertips.