Beauty In Death


I lie in a steaming cloud of fragrance
wispy tendrils aiming for the heaven
they say is above us
dissipating instead
against the peeling paint on the ceiling

I trace the cracks with my eyes
a similar pattern etched on my wrinkled palms
with all the time in the world
to contemplate my fissured life

which will end in these confines
Enough wine in my veins, dilated by the heat,
to dull the pain when I slice a line
— along, not across —
advice stowed away in a dark corner
of a despairing mind

pulled out now, and I take
aesthetic pleasure in
deathly swirls of pale pink
on foamy white

© 2017 Uma Venkatraman ~ All Rights Reserved

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