Poem – “A Birth of Death” – Romance – 3/28/2020

The blackest air,
The disease,
Was never enough to truly see you
In your time of plight.

I kissed
A song down into your throat,
And drew a curtain aside
To see you even more.

Love sleeps
Upon shelves made of mahogany
As an endless storm of books,
Captured of each detail.

Look upon your hair,
There are spiders that crawl through it.
Each strand, they mistake
For a strand in their webs.

The blackest hair,
The tresses that curl,
And the breath that whirls
Down to the bloody boats where are carried
Each fallen hero,
Like myself.