The lilies stink of death, the stench of
decay, the cloying smell of rotting love.
Stargazers, worshippers of love; love is gone,
gone away, day by day.
Death holds no secrets, no fears, I am slowly dying:
weeks, or months, perhaps a year.
I cannot bear the sight or sound of lilies.
do not put them on my grave.
When love is gone, taking hope it’s prisoner,
I am left to follow the dying flowers.
Each day the virus gains hold within me,
with my knowing.
I have ceased medications,
naught impedes its steady stronghold.
What were their names? Peter, Paul, Matthew.
those were yesterday. My once upon a time, skipper.
Their names haunt me like debted bank accounts,
Their names accuse me, accuse me.
They are gone, one to death, the others silent.
And as the lilies fade,
my time to join him approaches.
Arabian jasmine surrounds my gardens, their
heady perfume wafts of childhood memories,
large and fragrant blooming outside my bedroom
I create a space around me, reminding
me of that time, what should have been
innocence, now the slow meandering road
to encroaching death.