by Sherri Coulter

Created on: March 24, 2009   Last Updated: April 20, 2009

My brother-in-law has wished

me dead for twenty years.

I have always wished him early death,

release from misery.

His mind sick, twisted,

I believe unable to care, except

for the money his next script brings,

easy money, 'cause he's sick, he sings.

Lung cancer, Emphysema, COPD, and Hep. C.,

I read the papers, say,

seems he should be dead to me,

yet seven years and counting

walk he will everyday

to town for piddly bills to pay.

The breathing machine

collects dust galore,

never sucking the life giving thing.

He does take a heart pill,

swallows it down with Jack

and beer chasers, only asks

of good 'ole doc

to relieve his pain with the oxcy stuff

he sells on the street, to buy his

rock so his pipe it can meet.

He painted his only shoes

(white tennis shoes), black.

He painted two ball bats black,

and left the electric bill unpaid,

again creating blackness.

The whole of what he claims to be.

I stepped into his hole

and truly thought I died.

Inside my mind,

questioning Gods gift

to allow me to perceive,

he too made this man in his image.

Are we mirror opposites?

Or are we mere opposites

traveling from opposite ends?

Sharing in his darkness,

he fed me, showed me love,

I cried for my GOD above,

to release me from this spell,

his hell, but pray tell...

my husband died instead,

while sleeping in our bed.

He worried, from my visits

to the darkside, his fear

for me he could not hide,

I cried, that fear is real,

my sisters there,

he must not harm her,

not one hair.

I cannot leave her there alone,

in that darkness, it's not her home.

But she's still there,

locked in a mind of mental terror,

an alcoholic, her choice no more,

she needs it now to get off the floor.

I sit alone now , in my dark,
only five weeks have past,
and I ask, Who killed who?

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