I believe

I believe that death is rose, mauve,
and taupe
and the falseness of the lights, concealed, form a tangible volume in which your vessel is preserved,
and conversations that skirt your past wheel around that pale forcefield like flowers tracking the sun,
and you,
the pale gas giant,
the inward pull of your tremendous command of history, radiates beyond the fear in the room,
and the flowers close and you collapse.

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