Spilled Ink

preciousteacup:

This is how I want the end of my life to be
In sepia colors
An old man, looking out of the window
His thick rimmed glasses are on the table
(so is a vase,
Full with water, but no flowers.)

Somewhere in the background sad, omnipotent cello music is playing
There are no birds, but there are many clouds

This is how the end of my life shall be;
I know this old man, I know his face, I know all of him, intimately,
His old wrinkles tell a sad tale

I hang my head, the black, felt hat falls
Maybe now, a bird will fly out of the bushes,
But he flies silently
Off into a cloud, and nothing but clouds
To whiteness, to darkness,
To anywhere, anywhere else, but
Definitely not here.

No sunset, no sunrise
The ending is fuzzy, a merging and ebbing of
Different colored ribbons
Into one, singular thread
That waves, flutters until the wind
Carries it off, again.

-copyright Alina S.