At bed clothes.
Stark remains
of hope, life,
dignity.
What once was upright, beautiful –
pillar of society –
reduced, defeated upon her
pillow of death.
Amidst her laboured rise to the
pinnacle of career, perhaps she
paused, lamented the
passing of routine to
uphold the greater good?
They say they called –
a distant ring –
dull echoes to mark her
piss-soaked passing.
Shadows creep,
envelop tears and
frail fingers
clutch
at straws,
ignore their threats and
soldier on – steadfast, strong-willed –
perhaps she’ll change
society?
Three rings herald the hope of death.
Three shots mark the death of hope.
©Carolyn Cornthwaite
Carolyn writes poetry and fiction and blogs at http://wimpywriter.com/. She has just finished the first draft of a novel and is slowly recovering. Next time she will write an uplifting tale with a joyous ending.
