my father sleeps alone
while mother weeps
in our living room
there lays dust
on the other side
of the bed
we're still children
rupture calls too soon
we come into being
and then we vanish
this cycle will come
to its ending days
samsara speaks to me
as it says nothing lasts
and everything decays
and mother loves the
color black
the darker fear of departure
doesn't mean forgiving

- and the living room isn't for the living