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Dark Burgundy

Your room was the darkest shade of burgundy

Built upon the remnants of an old nursing home

The walls were laden with old photographs

Pictures of cats under Christmas trees

And your mother arranging a bouquet

Of magnolias, cherry, and night shade

There is a man by your bed

Old and sad

He is knelt in prayer

Hands clasped on the white sheets

You refuse to lay on

Now nostalgic and blood stained

There is a cat on my lap

Gray with gray eyes

Hearing as you tap

On the keys of an old and sad Steinway

Placed bellow your map of Spain

What an awful place, you said

The smell of cinnamon hits my senses

As I notice a dimly lit candle

Placed awkwardly on your nightstand

On top of stacks of playboys

And seventeen magazine

That you’ve collected for irony

Your closet was white and dirty

Home to a blood-soaked old lady

Eating nightshades and rosaries

As you sit still at your Steinway

Encircled in salt and quarter candles

Pressing the keys you know so well

Sweet and sour notes were played

Trying for Schubert or Debussy

Sweet and sour notes were played

Some were bitter

Some were empty

Some electric

Deadly, sad and sleepy

Your burgundy walls and ghosts

Your gray squared cat and me

Your old Steinway and map of Spain

Your ironic magazines

All the thing you’ve held so dear


With you

Will all rest in peace

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