She spoke with a constant suicide note
Clenched in her fist,
Moaning in the night,
Like a lone coyote
Calling for its mate.
We ignored her vacant stares
The constant tears.
Her health, a pest.
Her happiness, unwelcomed.
She dreamt of death in a horse and carriage
But natures course is much too patient
Her body suffocated under an old wool blanket.
When her struggling figure began to slow
The rain stopped
The fever finally broke.
The Ophelia spell disheartened her final victim.
We buried her near a pond
Where the weeds have grown wild.
Three young boys
Dug their mother's grave.
Then vowed to never return.
Moss swallowed the trees she'd hidden behind
All these years
Grass grows over her fair skin,
Disguising her fingers in the branches
And her hair in the willows.
A flower bud began to grow over her eternal bed
But never embraced the sun.
Created: Apr 29, 2017mmccann01 Document Media