Colors of Death

There are lonely cemeteries tombs full of bones with no sound the heart passing through the tunnel blackness blackness blackness as in a shipwreck we die inward as if drowning in our hearts as if falling from our skin to our soul there are cadavers there are the feet of the cold clammy slabs there is death in the bones like pure sound like a bark with no dog emerging from certain bells from certain tombs increasing in humidity like the weeping of rain i see, alone all the time coffins under sail weighing anchors with baited breath with women in dead photos with sheets of white like angels with pensive girls married to skeletons coffins floating the vertical river beds the dead dry river upwards, sails swollen by the sound of death filled with the silent sound of death to what is loud and clear, death comes like a shoe with no foot like a suit with no man comes knocking with a ring with no stone or finger comes screaming with no mouth, no tounge, no throat yet its steps .... ring and its clothes rustle silent like a ghost i dont know, i perceive little, i hardly see but i think it is the color of violets violets that are familiar with the earth for the face of death is green and the gaze of death is greener with the flowing damp of a violet leaf it is the solemn color of exasperated winter But death also moves through the world dressed as a broom licking the floor looking for souls death is in the broom is the tongue of death looking for the dead the needle of death looking for thread death is in beds on sluggish slow motion mattresses, in black blankets it lives stretched out and suddenly blows blows a dark sound that swells the sheets and then there are the beds sailing to port with the coffins on that river in those shipwrecks, as we die inward.