A surrealistic silence hangs sluggishly in the air,
as I sit upon your violet clawfoot recliner,
sorting fuchsia dresses into melancholic piles.
An opal ring glistens while the sun drapes over your portrait,
reflecting splashes of kaleidoscopic colors on barren walls.
Dust cakes the creaking floorboards as I place belongings into cardboard boxes.
A faint lullaby gradually infuses this somber undertaking.
The scent of floral perfume permeates—grief crashes over like cresting waves.
The wind whips outside, rattling the bones of a bitter house,
while a heavy heart sinks, drowning in agonized saline.
Tin plates and yellowed photos decorate mahogany tables
antiquated keepsakes, solidified moments in time.
The cerulean dusk creeps in, and the world softens.
Yet grief cloaks nocturnal restfulness,
as your sentience has been reduced to ash.
Merely confined within an engraved urn.
It is a steampunk wedding, Great-Grandpa, his grandson said.
He had no idea what that meant but found out right away.
It is like Jules Verne’s 20, 000 Leagues under the Sea has come alive!
He could not have been more thrilled if he had thought of it himself.
His copper cane with the fancy parrot was a “hit” with the young.
You should come over and see my clawfoot table, he told them.
He had been steampunk all along but did not know it.
if scented candles were stairsteps,
then i would lead you to a clawfoot tub
the water would be lukehot with a pinch of moderate cold
i would kiss you softly and cater to you until the middle reveals herfself
once there, your mischievous smile will guide me from there
however, i think i know the way by now
your less than bashful moans along with your strategic movements are obvious indicators
i enjoy your friendship
i appreciate your promotions
i cherish your soft, intelligent presentation
i love All That Is You.....
if scented candles were stairsteps,
then it would lead me The Perfection of Heaven that is You.....
enter, wade in life
bathe in peaceful clawfoot tub
showers not given.
(January 19, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved