she was approaching death
slowly smelling the flowers of her consciousnes,
she rose above a little plan,
thus spoke her restlessnes
there behind the door,
waited the woman in sullen attires
nevertheless the mess was uphealed
the little sanction in a little will.
or she smoked fumes,
or she drank the laze.
as she was about to make
contractions about the finititude
of her own life.
then it started to rain.
then the power went off.
she had been amazed
by the powers of a tiny virus,
how it could hold
wishes finally came true.
if the only project was a noise in a well.
and only living people could tell
how little she lived
there introduced,
as she left her brain
to some distant, alien,
unrecognizable,
awkward party
in sake of making white
from none,
to make forget the silence,
and the darkness,
and the emptiness
of what is known as
the daily life.
celine charcoal
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/she-dying/
