the empty walls

hope has
flown
like a
dead sparrow; it hangs
by its bloody
beak from a barbed wire
fence.
the old woman’s threadbare
face,
vacant, grim,
ensouls
the old and freezing
house. her breath
steams
like a
kettle in an icy wood. her
memories are
fresh
as the Christmas cards he
gave her,
bound with an
old ribbon—tight enough to
keep the guts
in, like the corsets of her
youth. she stares at
nothing; her eyes are stagnant
pools
where corpses float
just below the
surface.
her blotched and knotted
hands
strive like ancient
wrestlers
on the dry
sticks of her bony
lap.
the faces on the empty
walls
don’t understand;
their sympathy, though well-
meant,
is
cold.
dread crawls over
her skin
like a thousand mourning
ants.
sadness
is the
water in which she
swims,
death
the air she
breathes.
her lips barely moving, she
mumbles his name:
“Michael”
but her archangel has
gone,
never to return.

she would
welcome a second
death.

the empty walls

darkvampire

Joined January 2009

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    Notes
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