Letter To The Dead

Don’t blow out the last light in my soul,

the one called pity, the one called empty

for it is the only one that burns.

It’s unsteady flicker consumes

atom after atom of air,

the breeze wanders through her door.

The lighthouse keeper has locked

his shop and turned away the sea

in agony where his breath holds

the final blow to all that burned

all that beckoned he has stowed

away his key.  Beware the cool

vapor that settles near the quay,

beware the tips of your fingers,

beware the beating of your heart

where nothing but stones and stitches

remain.  For the movement of its chambers

disrupt the universe where stars

melt into time and the past

behind which is more past and the past.