Moments Before I Face The Village Poem by jerome moore

The wind, sound as a wave clapping on the rocks
clove smoke wilting lilies the table collecting dust.
its brash the colds sway and burn rash
body limp I sit in my drawing room flimsy curtains décor
what is this? the wind speaks
i have nothing left to give this room warmth
the oxygen poison
skeletons line my walls
the throne is boarded up.
artificial stimulants run through my body
the taste of charred clove wich used to hold your breath
the rush of blood through my body you used to excite with sight, touch, smell and taste
chemcles mixed in a drink a cocktail shot to my nerves with movement and I move my feet in tune to the music drunkenly swaying into dark alleyways, stumbling and ranting leaving the bar-front doors blowing windward.
howling into the night
sic transit gloria
the fire comes to life
the lune cry out
in sad verse
what are they saying in there mysterious tongues?
no more wood
I cut the table down
waiting for the day
the light
that which burned most effortlessly
brightly is that made with hands of craft
I sweat it out, and by dawn hope is crust in the earth.

keep for me the locket tangled in your tarantula grip
keep in you the memory of me for I will remember for we
shall overcome
does love truly fade?