October House
She grinned murder through toothless decay,
ageing brittle aspects drawn down in quiet solitude.
An aching drama of sincerity,
forgotten crimson under drift blankets.
Gently they spoke,
a diorama of fabrics swirled
with tentative glimpses of polished silver.
The curtains hung heavy,
caught on cast iron,
unusually gathered.
A wisp traced the candle smoke,
carried by breath sunk into deep carpet.
This was no ordinary day,
she’d already danced,
wept into red wine,
cancelled the gardener.
When we arrived, four staff carried the corpse.
Heavier. Stiff with jaded fluid. Unusually bereft.
