The widow of the yard with the dead white tree

The widow of the broken home full of black dreams

The widow with the tears falling down her cheek

Still tumbling after years, though it feels like a week.

We hear bellows erupting from the interior of the home

The walls, they tremble like rocks against bone.

But a while ago, a man would walk across the pavement

A suitcase in his clutch and a frown is what made him.

His misery blazed like the inferno of Hades

To think a housewife would know, just maybe…

Now he rests beneath the floor of which he once stood.

The grass is covered in white buds above the splintery wood.

And though the hearse six feet under lingers

Every day, it pricks her in the finger.

Every night she sits on the cushion of the rocking chair

Holding a blade in her palm, thinking what’s fair

Sometimes a rope tied to the ceiling fan

Others, some pills that will one day make her understand

What is beyond that walls that trap her so?

What is beyond the life that will not let her go?

Her nursed warned her of the darkness

When she closes her eyes for eternity.

But she only sees the light before the shadowless air.

Tonight, she will experience the white dusts

Of death.