U.F.O. No. 17

She was blue at the bedside ragged and warm
as sirens signaled savage red and yellow far away;
'I love you,' she whispered.

Tuesday's solemn droning sent a cool breeze over the hills,
and coughing sludge at breakfast,
and no one was home...

except for her,
with eyes like war-torn rivers flooding rooms dressed in shadows,
and her mind lit like a film rolling silent in the darkened house.

She was pale curled up in a chair
and started to doze psychosis war-torn sweet
as Death a sharpened mystique graced her thigh and cheek.

And like watching beauty's embalmment,
like schizophrenic spilling milk,
she woke.

The sky was beyond and untouchable,
as Tuesday's solemn droning sent cold upon the streets
and the lips of children were made chapped.