Under the mat was the key.
The charming garden before.
The door acts like I bothered it
As it creeks its nasty little song.
The journey of the stairwell.
The cat: my guide in the darkness.
His eyes: the lamps to illuminate
The unforeseeable near future.
Already incense has been lit.
An empty bottle of Merlot sits
By its lonesome next to a glass that weeps.
The flowers in the vase are decrepit;
Left to eventually crumble.
My flesh permeates the room.
Her body erodes.
I place a tray accompanied by eggs and caviar
Next to her bedside, stroke her silky hair
Down her aged breast.
I taste death in her vagina when it swells after.