The Ill Wind
Her screams echoed through his life,
Traces of youth, given for a wife.
The battle downhill, though he tried to rise,
Only a memory in his bloodshot eyes.
Hands holding his head, a big drawn sigh,
And wonders if it had all been a lie.
Had she ever loved him? Did she pretend?
This was not how it was supposed to end.
He threw the bottle, shattered glass upon the floor,
He was through. He did not need it anymore.
She lay so still, unmoving, silent, unaware,
Her blood from the knife everywhere.
She had not deserved that, but the time was late,
The drink had held him, impatient to wait.
He needed it and needed it then such was his thirst,
Hidden from him, her refusal making it worse.
He remembered but he did not, all a bad dream,
The knife he had held, he silenced her scream.
Once he had loved her, and perhaps still,
But it was too late as he went in for the kill.
His mind whirled images of death,
He found his gun, asked forgiveness with his last breath.
She moved, she struggled, she tried to rise,
Crawling to him she saw his look of surprise.
She lived. He did not, for he chose his own fate,
Her memories will haunt, as she closed the cemetery gate.
She still cries, she loved him true,
But in the end, there was nothing she could do.
© Cynthia Clark