Waltzing with Death

Cold empty bed.
Open cloudless skies.
There is no dinner.
There are fire pits in
a scorched esophagus.

Maple leaves floating
in the watery tears
of our soft spoken sky.
Cry baby cry,
for it's gone, gone.

Tears of placid sorrow
peal away the fear.
Emerging sadness now.
It spills lazily
ever searching, lost.

What deadline exists
besides the line
that hums the high octave;
it's permanent cry
of still quiet death.