by Eleonora Venturini

A home in daylight, nothing at night

in a room filled with memories and burning ashes.

You are confined to your bed by hauled chains,

a nest that relinquish your begging ashes.

You are still inside your armour as white as salt

tickled by the sea in the land of greyish ashes.

Your hair is like crows flying from the meadow,

a golden field turned into grim merciless ashes.

Your eyes are mirrors in their pale reflection,

an autumn shade that brushes your mortal ashes.

Your hands are like spiders, rigid in their attack

sitting on a delicate web sewed in your faded ashes.

Your mouth is sealed, and no sounds are allowed

the monster is listening to your physical ashes.

Alone in a room full of sorrow, waiting for you

chained to a casket not belonging to your ruined ashes.

Someone will make a visit in your new home,

but you are gone from here in the day of the Ashes.