The Disappearing Poem

Vanishing points at the crossings
a soft impression in this new day
which we welcomed with lassitude:
the trails of smoke on the ceiling.

The cat was languidly licking its tail
on the spiral staircase overlooking
your bedroom small blessings
from the days gone by.

The gilded frame of the miners' slogan
was our signpost and our private joke
it made a faux-rococo impression
but it hid a dark secret.

Rays of red afternoon sun were filtered
through the yellow curtain as
the ceiling started to give way
collapsing with a crash.

You were wearing a facial mask
and the dust had stuck to your face
you looked like a miner yourself now
quite a sight to behold.

We started laughing and dancing
among the debris I filmed you
in your bathrobe and scented
body lotion.

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