Compelled by the cross-winds
she carries on, heel to toe
along the rail, along the side
dying to kill the will inside
that drives her, ever onward,
ever farther in life
past suicide, into that horrid end:
that slow, gray decay.
Confused, trembling, less than a spectre
of the human she once was, she
finds the juice, the fire catches
she clears the rail, and falls.
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Author:
Fränz Müller (
Offline) - Published: August 13th, 2025 17:09
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 9
Offline)
Comments1
It seems that one attempts to kill the pain of aging with drink numbing the awareness. Nicely written
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