Cut Of The Silver Cord Poem by Radhica Laukaran

Two o'clock. The phone called them out of bed
to blind blackness, where bracing they fell
into a chapel of rest and stared
at themselves lying lifeless but wrapped warmly.
Reflections mirror twofold while images
ghost the glass in crack pieces
and the housekeepers lie still.
Yet she moved around like Pickford,
‘Queen of the Movies' in some silent film
though at times she scolds them for some faults
caught in a mirage recalled,
other times she knocks urging him to speak.
But no eyes shine save blank stares
housed in a vacant home.