The salt crystallises as each drop smacks against the hot metal strip edging the marble lined well of the stairway to hell.
Overnight compartments smoulder and steam as a sauna near hot springs sweltering lost dreams.
Red steal runners, bend and contort, railing against trails heating the torque.
Motion illnesses a thing of the past as each road travelled is always your last.
Melting bronzed struts that hold it together, skidding along coals for now and forever.
Standing across from the open coffin, I see the white lace of mothers slip reaching out from beneath the pretty blue dress I bought her last Christmas.
People are crying, dad is giving the eulogy, telling everyone about the fond memories she leaves behind, and all I can see is the white lace.
Aunt Grace is holding tight to my hand, trying to push what feels like a an already used tissue into it, but all I can see is the white lace.
Uncle Bob steps up to the altar and draws dad into his sad embrace and all I can see is the slip of white lace.
My next door neighbours sticky beak wife cries so loudly it echoes, but I only hear mothers plea about the white lace.
A trail of family some known and some foreign begin to line up, to kiss mothers face, but all I can see is the white lace.
With no time to cry and no time to waste, I push to the front and hide the white lace.
She sleeps a cold slumber, all dressed for the fate with the flow of her blue dress enhanced by white lace.
I watch her twirl to the church house doors, smile her last smile before… she moves on.
I feel through my sadness at her demise, the wildest wonder shining from her eyes, with one more pirouette she leaps to my side and thanks me for remembering the lace I did hide.