(I)

The night drew out on his last words.

Silence, like a palm reddened in vermillion,

Tenderly touched and left its print on a new leaf.

It’ll die with the mark, will it not?

(II)

Many a winter stumbled

Over the heap of results of someone else’s

Perplexed senses.

Questions to answers or maybe answers to

Questions, circling

In a stygian tunnel of myth and numbness

The deeper one probes, the greater the dumbness.

Light: an arrow speared at random?

(III)

Beneath the rainbow, a death will be celebrated

Not mourned. Yet mourned. But will it be?

This day, flowers around the mausoleums

Laugh, waiting to be pulped under the wrath

Of times that will move backward and backward

Until the day the bird is released into the blue yonder.