Painting a Portrait of Death
The glow of the street light
filtered thru the chink
in the curtain,
Casting a surreal glow on the
captive inside.
Her face reflected in the
looking glass at her side,
Contemplating her demise.
How she hated this place,
This prison with no guards.
It reeks of power and personage
above her stand in life.
She hears a bird trill,
it's song weaving the air
around her,
making it dance and sing,
sharing it's music with
all who would listen.
She pressed her face to the
window,
how she longed to be outside,
she didn't notice the glass
begin to crack,
splinters and shards, slicing
and tearing her skin.
No pain was felt,
and the only tears wept,
were those of the blood from
her wounds.
Air was breathed into
smoke rotted lungs,
warmth felt on damaged flesh.
More light than the chink
in the curtain
could ever give,
fell on her face.
As her soul began to climb
she heard the bird,
far below,
begin to sing... again.
fin.
Janine Boon
07/08/96
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