figures swaddled in
black
looming, towering overhead
shaky fingers clutching,
silent sobbing,
stifled moaning,
solemn whispering.
in the
midst of it all
Papa sleeps in a
box
pallid, unmoving
a match's struck,
a spark flickers,
a crackle sounds,
a wisp wafts,
a blazing bonfire burns .
acrid smoke rises
inky and smothering
leaving you
bewildered, breathless
you run
trying to catch him back
but
Papa is
slipping through your
f i n g e r s