Ashes

I am deep in the cracks where the dead men go,
where their re-fleshed bodies sway to and fro.
Where your bones found rest, I do not know.

I am wandering, searching, so lost, lost in time,
in the space between your life,
the absence of mine.
It's the smell of your ashes that I've followed here,
that sooty gray soundsmith I hold oh so dear,
that last breath you drew on a much warmer night,
that last sigh you left, growing cold in the light.

When it's time for my own more timely death,
will I lose the scent and the sound of your breath?

I am slipping and sliding through cracks all my own
where your ashes grow bright
and they pierce through my soul,
and I hear a strange noise like the grim old man reaping:
it's my mother who rips your face off the wall,
and I choke on the dust that my body is seeped in.

I am deep in the cracks where the dead men go,
where the air smells of paint, smells of liquor, fresh snow.
Where your soul found rest, I do not know.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

For Chachi.

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