Gabriella Garofalo writes

Death was to her a good-sized room,  
Squeaky clean, decked in blue and white,  
Sparse furniture, the bare minimum of course -  
Just for a change, a bloody change she’d like  
To reawaken as a land:  
Maybe suburbia past a comet  
Where the offspring of elves  
Weave tales of ordinary people  
Who slept with unicorns at long last -  
No questions and a dark stillness, got it,  
If April turns out a harvest of riddled questions  
If light looks nastier than a tension headache -  
Heavens and myths can’t help you,  
They can’t hear your voice  
While moon and wombs scram  
And a sour taste of green stays with you,  
Grass, daffs, pomegranates -  
Shame he hasn’t got time  
To care for your fruits,  
It’s getting late, you know, so off he goes -  
Hades can’t handle desire or upset -  
Only red, he claims, must shield  
November’s leaves from scattering stares  
And wouldn’t you like to be a leaf,  
To free your red when life messes up -  
Look, be very afraid of such thoughts  
If you haven’t beheld the blue hour  
When charcoal skies silence  
Almond blossoms and branches sigh bare,  
When fire blazing blue on the streets of her body  
Gives rise to high tension,  
To fear from the depths of the earth -  
Feel it among devious candles?  
Well, luckily you’ve got different lights,  
But so young -  
Just a glimpse from the sky, then  
Assault and battery cross his mind.

[from "A Blue Soul," Argotist Ebooks]