The Death Of Tchaikovsky

Smooth glass,
on the fingers.
Rolled between.
Soft and golden liquid seen.
Bitter honey viscous.
Deadly, by nature.

This will be my final drink.
My last taste,
and sensation.
My end.
Sent, with hate and fear
by my former friends.
Death would be welcome.
So much struggle, to pass.

I glance through the lace, outside.
White skies.
Cold and damp, as I rise.
Gold sun rays, pass through.
Fall down to you,
on the hard brown ground below.
I see fields frozen, with snow.
My journey so long.
My childhood home,
my mother,
my dead brother.
Nanny.
The music box.
Picture of daddy.
My old room.
My hope, and love,
and pink ribbon of peace.
My soft and tiny baby arm waves in space
and reaches for the cold embrace of day,
as do I,
in this small, mahogany wood place,
so far away.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.