The Letter by the Chairs

I knew in time you’d come. With time, the smell would come.

It’s no more than what I’ve known. The smell of people alone

Could turn my stomach. That odor, of salt, and wet decay

Makes my flesh crawl. People do not consider it, let   Alone

Their actions.

No matter how they try to cover themselves,

No flowery scent can hide from me the truth.

I know what is inside them. I’ve heard the ticking heart.

Seen flowing rivers of mashed fruit, melting into liquid streams.

The gurgling churn as organs move it along the seams, on and on.

Until it does not move,                        I

Know. I have seen the ticking stop. Heard the gears halt. Felt the end.

Seen them sit where they find themselves, and                        Melt like fettered wax.

I sit alone.

Time was always the enemy in my work.                    Decay

Does not wait for man. The office desiccated my heart.

And when white dust waited upon the departed,

I drained them.                        Suited

Them. Dressed them.

Prepared them for sleep, in starched clothing.

I was efficient. But today, the stiffs gave to    Me

The truth. That my heart was a desert.

That my hot air would turn, cold.

Another day I’d never see, even being not that old.

I had worked so long with stiffs I could not see

The difference

‘Tween us any longer. I had played their games.

I had rolled their bones. And shuffled their clubs

And spades. Sought diamonds, yet found no heart,

Only sand. Blasted away. The grind makes

Sand of us all,              In the end.

How long can any man make ashen wealth

Of widows’ mites? Some until the time ends.

Me, only until the day before.

My time was sand.

It poured through a glass, many grains, unique

And the same. Unable to change fate. A vacuum

Left behind, of my parts, my palpable memories.

I am the dead. As are we all.                And the burden of knowing

Became mine.

I sit alone

In my apartment tomb. There are two chairs; one for me,

One for my coat.

Beside the broken table, fallen a year ago,

I dressed myself. Prepared for the sleep.

My sand ticks it’s last in the glass, where         I wait for you,

I watch, as I have always, through the glass

As people pass far below. Uncaring, they drop           Remains.

They pull their coats against the cold

And trade their time for pleasure.

I know no pleasure.     I

Know not you. I          Sit

Beyond the glass. Memory remains,    Alone.

I hope you see. Choose to see

Published by AC Moore

My goal is to one day change the world in the same way Shakespeare did: by infusing the thoughts of the human race with such language and turn-of-phrase that they say them daily, and never even know it was I who wrote it.

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