Cotton sheets
are funeral shrouds
of fever-soaked hysteria.
Klaxons sound
and we clutch the corners,
tearing at the seams,
all while the worry builds
into bleak desperation.
These cotton sheets
were once pure and clean.
Then comes the urgent
escape of angry steam
and the gallery screams
at the passing
of the hour hand
past the midnight marker,
whereupon,
in the dying times,
these small hours,
we can see that Death
does harken
to the confused questions
of the newly deceased.
She flutters
through the hallways,
and we can mark
her passage
by the chiming wisps
of her
icy breath
and the aching void
of sorrow
that her passage
brings.
©️ Obol, 2020.
