Death Bed Poetry: Nikola Tesla
The room hums with invisible prayers—
blue sparks dancing like ghosts of forgotten thunder.
He dies lit by his own inventions,
a cathedral of current pulsing behind his eyes.
The pigeons wait by the window,
feathers like folded circuits of forgiveness.
He speaks to the air as if to the future,
“They will laugh first. They always do.”
Outside, the streetlights blink in silent salute,
filaments bowing in quiet understanding.
Greatness flickers, then steadies—
not extinguished, but absorbed
into the bright machinery of night.
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