There is a foreboding that this might be the end
Sit next to the bed and watch
The moonlight cast a strange liquid light like pure paper
It is her flickering soul

Hear the water dripping from the faucet
Mixed with the very last breath of a dying man

The perfumed gardens are not bothered by bees
Busy bees
Who poke and prod and try to turn flowers into weeds
Muckraking and mulch create a vomit smell that stirs the soul.

The neighbors
My bickering neighbors who gossip and form the attitude of strangers

Enchanted forest hosts with delight
Hey!
The echo yells back
Rounding out the high pitch tones inside the metal canister

One way conversations are the norm these days
And I like it

-- William Nunez​