A flock of consternation
we descend upon Shell
all flying feathers
and white splotches of guano
Turn the house upside down
spin it around
rearranged
and deranged.
Rick waves a paint brush
a maestro directing us
with extravagant swirls
The color changes
over the course of the day
from soft pinks Shell
selected years ago
to white upon white
She sits outside
the walking frame
parked neatly next to her
reading calmly.
In between taping up
and cutting in
I dodge outside for a moment
smile tentatively
Its coming along well
I offer
scraping paint spots
off my knuckles
Shell's eyes are vast echoing
auditoriums of empty
the sound of my voice
bouncing around and refusing to fade
no soft surfaces to deaden the echo's
Colors are changing
but
I'm still dying
3 comments:
it's so unfair that tragedy and sadness seems to bring out the best in us as writers.
This is lovely.
Thanks kid, I will track small parts of her journey, selfish I guess,but it helps me cope with it.
of course *hugs*
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