The Cremation

I saw you again the other day
propped up in your ash-tone-wear
upon that slender-rocking chair

Was it but my imagination
or just another fantasy
of my oldest friend, Sanity

Has Death promised to make you his
mischievous-pale-fleshed mistress,
with the coal-blackened-evening dress

Or perhaps rather maybe he too
a mere pet in your vine-flesh hand,
withering in your cold demand

I hear you still behind the snaps of
the match-lit-corridor halls,
seeping through household walls

Your voices drown into laughter
by my indifferent reply
and thus let this be my good-bye