by Author Name Withheld 201

Created on: April 14, 2008

WIDOW OF CATASTROPHE

Upon the cold and barren flesh, a formless misery descends
Unto the dreary confines of a somber widow's lair and mourning dress
Beyond locked doors and windows in heavy linen cloaked
The sorrow of death's unending cast of shadows, steal the light of days
Lonely whispers of a lover lost, chill the air, then break the stillness
Voices disembodied sew themselves throughout the discord of her memories

With chaos and grandeur, bind love into tragedy
And she wonders if thoughts so agonizing, alone, could seek to kill the human soul
How it is not to die when every drop of blood in the veins
Coarse through a widow's heavy heart
And feel like the sharpened edges of icicles breaking
Over and over again, more cruel with every passing memory
Against her cold and pale, aching flesh
Once courted for its beauty, now her object of resentment
In its ability to feel, time lost and the vacancy of human touch
Its ability to mirror each recollection, each bittersweet sensation
The memories of his hands and lips and eyes upon her
Play out in tandem with obscured visions of his funeral procession, side by side
Until the listless worlds of death and sex, love and madness seem as one
Closing her eyes, she can see herself standing center stage
Somewhere in another time and distant place
Locked behind the tinted glass of two-way mirrors
The median enclosure of a merry-go-round, still moving
As the world around her spins, she is stilled in silent solitude
And deep in contemplation of what moves the earth, or stills the heart
Catastrophe, a looming end for all that breathes, that loves and hates
A carousel that turns to ash, and sunrise burns
Particles of rust, of joy and wilted flower petals
Plucked from the earth, soul and mind
Carried off in the luster of the blowing wind
With its absolute indifference to the living and the dead, all equal in its stormy breeze

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