“Free verse poem about carrion surrounded by candles”

In the hush of a room hung thick  
with saffron wax and dripping light,  
the carrion lies—a quiet center  
in the wake of what flew and fell.  
Night has left a signature,  
a bird or beast unnamed,  
and here, the body becomes a memory  
written without words.

Candles stutter like startled hearts.  
Their flames lean forward,  
devoted witnesses to decomposition,  
each wick a slender throat  
humming to the dark,  
each puddle of melted wax  
a silent giving in.

The air is dense with old sweetness—  
fat and floral, honey and rot—  
the paradox: how death is dressed  
in reverence and ritual  
when wrapped in a circle of light.

Once, something moved here.  
Now, only whisper and warmth remain,  
candles guarding like mourners  
who stay, who flicker  
through the endless hour,  
offering tenderness to the stark bone  
and feather,  
offering remembrance  
to the space where life once lingered  
and now—drifts, gently home.

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