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The funeral in merry roses
The greyish doom
of charcoal permeated cotton
Lies far, far above the pleated, dark sheets
where glisters shine pass
As through a hole being lighted
through the pores on the translucent sheets
Into the oil-painted stamps of golden glistens upon
with misty blurs of the curtains and beds
Like tattered fireplace
through the long nights ahead
Yet they hold fire after all
Its flames spent and ignited
Of ideas, cries, and existence fallen and in ash
In the gentle devour of burning time
How beautiful for the discarded it is
To go through like flashing headlights in the night
A brilliant glare, spark in front of the pages
Like half-time reminders of plays
A theater fully-lit in instants
Awakening away from the dull stage of night
Then sliding away fast
To silence the dins of lighting
And melt back into the dark act – the smoky doom
The funeral in merry roses
Through the tender fireplaces
Though nowhere to be seen
Up in ashes to the calm, infinite grey
Finally hugged in the intricate, soft tentacles of cotton
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