imaginary comfort to the dying

as he flares to vandal skin
and my each breath blows ripe,
he gives no rant of outcry,
no face of who knows gloom.

there remains a sparkling parody
in his eyes of mostly doom:
how blame his gems of barrenness
for grasps at lashes past?

if there was a failure of carpentry,
I would be the last to plumb his truth.