He dreams, sometimes,
of sunlight scattered,
radiance that fades into the earth;
of a blood-blooming kiss upon
a wide, serious brow.
He can taste the copper,
feel the last breath
as it sighs into his
gasping, greedy mouth,
for he cannot transform
this suffering,
cannot immortalise
the fading eyes,
the stuttering pulse
that had sung him to sleep
and comforted him in quiet hours.
Best he can hope is to hold
the dying breath,
the spiritu, the soul;
to carry it in his heart
as a grief that never fades
until he, too, lays down
in blood and ashes.
He awakes to soft whispers,
gentle, gentling hands upon
his cold-slicked skin, arises to
a smile that kisses him to wakefulness,
away from the ghosts of what
almost certainly will be,
by one hand or another,
but always the blood
upon his skin,
in his mouth:
bloodied without and
within.
He reaches up,
fingers soft over curious,
caring eyes,
shutting them
only so that he might
see them open
again.
