you lie there, not asleep

as i wash the blood from hands

worn rough from work and hate

that you ‘live’ in foreign lands

i might never see or visit

you have escaped my wrath

falling snow upon the roof

blanketing the well worn path

so i measure out the paraffin

striking flint to match

smiling as the flames grow

as i race to catch

up

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with work like this, i am building up a morbid tableau – a snapshot of one determined to follow their lover into the beyond – looking at the body, still angered by the desertion of death by their hand as they set themselves aflame