In the Conservatory with a Candlestick
Every moment is a lit match
Flickering in a dark room
Some gray February morning
Menaced by strange winter thunder.
Getting older is running out of matches
Burning each one down
To the absolute nub
Searing thumb and forefinger.
Every iteration of old self
Is huddled somewhere in a quiet
English conservatory
Waiting to get murdered.
All you hear is the sound of matches striking
Against strips of powdered glass
Rapid at first and then spaced out
In ever wider intervals
Like popcorn left too long in the microwave.
It dusks and then gets darker and darker
As everyone begins to ration what’s left.
3/11/24
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