What remained

The yellow shards, jagged.
The purple base, standing still,
A staunch shattered blade
Receiving rites, entombed within
A black backpack, half-closed,
Half-draped over the promontories
Of what remained.

The man, sitting. The sofa, sinking.
The eyes, set, open, empty.
The fingers, long and twiddling
A blue Bic over and under,
Over and under. A low base note
Echoing in the skull. Above
And ahead, the grey walls,
The studded stucco walls
Smeared with charcoal and dust.
The body, silent, lame.
The mind lingering on
The song's last phrase,
The bong's last days.
The stare.