Acquiescence Flood

The life seeps from the gentle man,
who lays upon the bed.
And closer yet, and closer still,
does he become to dead.

I have no cloth with which
to wipe away the tears,
the polychromic liquid,
slowly rising to his ears.

Colored by the passions, which
in his final moments fret
the consciousness that creeps along
the path that Fate has set.

He sinks into the pool of death
his final moment due
and with a wave, descends a slave
and disappears from view.