A Pyridoxine Dream Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

I woke
the drapes were drawn
and darkness
from my soul
had taken hold
inside the house
where
sounds have died
due to neglect
and beating hearts
both humans and
those lacking flesh
decayed,
to metamorph
into new life
as immortality.
My hands,
sleepdrunk,
reach over to
the warmth of her,
but she has gone
to join the past
where feasts are held
each quarter moon,
and left,
at rest
upon her pillow
in her place,
her imitation clone
whose hands
were ice,
of wilted pallor
and the skin
of paperbark.
But she could speak
and all
my silence
also died.