Ships

His room smells like a garden of flowers
That bowed to the reaper and dried up well.
Aromatic chains of smoke cling on to rags
Friendships are sealed
With sweat from incandescent glues.

It is his fate to gather death, myth and ashes
His power to turn this room into a shrine

She’s glued to this man whose eyes
Mirror pain, the deepest pains of life.
To burn this pain he welcomes us
With fire and a childish laughter in his room