terminal

lying in anaesthetised
sheets of snow,
she palely, patiently
waits,
a clock where her
heart
should be,
ticking and
chiming the
hours
she has
left.
her hairless
head sits on the
pillow like a tree swallow’s
egg; so fragile:
like the single
tear that escapes,
as her
haunting,
hollow
eyes wonder…

why?



Comments

  • timbuckley
    timbuckleyalmost 3 years ago

    You are the only one here whose poems sing to me you have rarely faltered to look at death and life and remove its stale odour with great writing

  • Many thanks, Tim.

    – darkvampire

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