This poem was previously published in the Fall 2014 issue of Inner Sins.
Haunting Lonely Pools
Now she is only herself, at best.
She would have nothing, to have rest.
A ghost of bones and rot, that wrought
A life that would not, made naught.
A demon of her loss and sorrow
Who spies a path she cannot follow.
Circling her forgotten, rotten body
Which at the well, there fell and died.
Forgetting, slowly, what life looks like:
Crude beasts avoid the place, the house
That no men walk near, long o'ergrown.
The quiet leaves her cold to the bone.
For fits and starts she thinks she thinks
She surely might still be alive.
But what that means, she can't recall
Behind a solemn veil of tears.