Refraction.

He Does Not Melt.

I spoke with the man
In the long leather jacket,
And I accepted when he offered
A drink from his chalice -
His smile was a grimace,
Or maybe it was the other
Way around;
His grimace was a smile,
And I stumbled into the depths
Of his jaundiced eyes,
Spitting the bitter taste
From my mouth.
That taste,
I will never understand
From where it came,
Only that there was
Suddenly smoke in my lungs,
Spilling from my mouth
Into the room.
I shouted for the old man,
But only a lone moth
Escaped from my parted lips.
It was all I could do
To grasp at
The melting flesh.
I remembered only then
That the man was an old friend
Who touches every life -
Without those skeletal hands,
What would a life be?
If we did not fear those bloodshot eyes,
If they did not threaten
Finality...
If he did not slash and hack
At beautiful faces,
Nobody would know true sorrow,
And I pondered then
For how much of life
Sadness is a prerequisite.
He sits in this smouldering box
Beside me.
He does not melt.
He is the final thing we have in common,
And I cling to his wintry hands.
This is just another day -
Albeit time has no meaning when infinite,
So he sits and watches for a while.
There are faces
I once knew,
I see them, and yet I don't.
I do not understand what it is
That I'm supposed to do.
Only when a familiar voice
Calls me forth,
Do I stand up out of my body.
The man is gone; the box is bare
Aside from my own charred remains.
They remain in my contemplation
For scarcely a second,
And I turn to see the souls
That I'd believed to have been lost.
I do not look back;
What remains belongs to the living.