Matter

Dreams will evaporate easily,
much like a consumptive
withering away in the sun,
until those final few breaths
with their horrifying rhythm
overtake the dying tongue.

Love will shatter carelessly,
much like weathered glass
pockmarked in the wind,
holding light in a prism
for short moments
until it bursts from within.

Time will collapse quietly,
much like footsteps in a room
emptied but echoing,
as floorboards creak before
a final absence,
reckless but bellowing.