The room you die in

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The room you die in
may have curtains of white serge.
A winter slice of window light
capturing silence fibered
in drifts of old conversations.
A stiff chair adorned
in yesterday's clothing.
In the light fixture's floral bowl
dead bugs scattered about.
Lacelike brownish flowers,
the wallpaper.  Eyes grow dry
eardrums throb to rivers.
 
No strength to call
the breakfast voices
beyond the door
with paint chipping.
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