Dante Dream

by Fabrice B. Poussin


Waking up with Dante at 3 a.m.
chairs of crimson velvet in a dark room
damp with the smell of formaldehyde.

Friends stood in need of a last embrace
blue of a waxy substance chalky as death
forgotten carcasses on a country road.

They spoke not a word, moved not an inch
clones of a single self, statues to yesterdays,
their stench overpowering all that lives.

The air frigid with infinite darkness before the door
to be taken soon upon the dreaded hour,
for it was too late to return to living.


Copyright © 2017 by Fabrice B. Poussin

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