His breathing was thick,
his snore desecrated the day,
his fingers twined,
hands folded upon his chest,
His eyelids were closed, hazel-green
tones beneath, forever hidden.
His body was present,
but his mind most likely poised
upon the precipice of a varied horizon,
one where our setting sun
no longer shined, where our moon,
blinded by the western rays,
sat upon the white shoulder of a hill,
awaited sunset. This crisp November day
chilled the rusted leaves barely clinging
to the lumbering oak’s branch.
His mouth was open and slightly oozed,
when someone spoke, no answer came forth.
Night enveloped and buried the landscape,
the wind ceased its whistle,
flocking birds merely stared.
Then the hours, days, and years
stopped following him, their representatives
ticked in the pockets and upon the wrists
of those that surrounded.
Our pleas ceased, his discomfort ended.
The pain was gone.
His secrets no longer mattered.
Sunlight diffused amid the thickening ashes
of spreading blackness.
His body was there, but now had cooled.
The heated air shivered against his skin.
His survivors leaned toward his torso,
but he had departed.
Michael Keshigian’s ninth poetry book, Dark Edges was released September, 2014 by Flutter Press. He has been widely published in numerous national and international journals most recently including Poesy, Aji Magazine, The Chiron Review, California Quarterly, Bluepepper and has appeared as feature writer in over a dozen publications with 5 Pushcart Prize and 2 Best Of The Net nominations. (michaelkeshigian.com)