Ken's Poetry

Cold

Your cold hand in white satin rests,
denies the fearful lingering of mine,
no longer reaches out to calm or soothe.
On darkened nails
bright polish flashes its defiant red.

Your breast no longer rises to my touch
nor ripples with the rhythm of your breath,
I dare not reach inside this silken cloth
to feel the chill that wraps your silent heart.

Your pale neck
no longer glows with blood and breath.
Your hair retains its gloss,
your bright red lips hide purple of regret,
a frozen sliver of a smile
glints on memories lurking in the dark.

One aching look, one cold and dreadful kiss,
lip to lip I taste your final breath
and join you in the emptiness of death.
Beneath this lid I shut you in, me out.