My Death Will Be Jasmine
Chiseled dusk shadows stretch
across the stench of uncertainty, street
lights piercing through a dark blue
mist of innuendos laden with earthy
dampness.
Deserted church decaying on a
dead-end road, posted signs declaring
gross condemnation—passersby
surmising a reference to the building,
virtue long abandoned by both.
Vaping guy dancing on the street
corner—waving a crudely painted
poster disavowing climate change, the
self-appointed community hero awaiting
trial for spousal violence.
White horse whispers again, several
years since our last conversation—an
implied discourse for no one's ears.
Visions of unintended fates. Colorless
dawns, my death will be jasmine—but
death is brief, like a sigh.
