When you feel that poetry zig past your rib
And imprint itself, before lost, on paper,
This situation is a tad more glib,
As I force the words to embark from vapour.
Glib like the smile plastered on her mouth,
Like the eyes, neither curious nor enlightened,
Like the hymn in her heart, the hymn of the devout,
To give life away and not be frightened.
A place of no fear, just fate of the wizzing chamber,
One by one they are tossed in whole,
Their offsprings stand and watch the ember,
Remembering that there were dreams, back when the days were old.
Now she remains a carcass to be deavoured, a corpse that remembers to breathe,
Will it be you, me, or father time himself, that will place on her that final wreathe?