She wore black except the white heels and pearl earrings. Coughing would show weakness. She swigs her water. The subway-car slows to a stop, “STATION A-4” and Blythe glides out into the underground bustle. It’s routine now to be ignored. A laughing blonde on her pink iPhone bumps Blythe and gives a startled yelp. Blythe pierces the Barbie with a glare and starts up the stairs to the office. A clock reads 7:57.

Late.

Again.

She rounds the corner and sees the sign, “Cound Industries- over 100 years of family service.” Pushing in the wooden door and ignoring security she marches to the IV floor. Marketing. No one says hello or acknowledges her presence. She is phantom. Everyone knows its terminal and that she’s the last of the Cound family line. “Three months, max. It’s a very aggressive cancer.” The doctor told her that at Christmas and it’s now Valentine’s Day. She shut herself in her office. Blythe sighs for the first time. She took out her kerchief and coughed. Blood spots. The red blood was not the only red she planned to see this Valentine’s Day. Today, Blythe Cound decided to take her life and make it immortal.

Steeling herself with a ***** shot she tucked the ****** rag back into her coat, which she then removed to reveal a flowing white dress. “Maybe it will be Owen, he has ideas on how to fix this place. No more charity to start with.” The whispers of her “friends and coworkers” filled her mind as she observed herself in the mirror. Ninety pounds, hollow cheeks, and the wedding dress of her grandma baggy and yellowed. She coughed up blood again, this time on her hand. The urgency hit her. Re-dressing in her long coat she left the office for the last time. Ever. Twenty minutes later she entered the soup kitchen. She sat in the back observing the scene. She chose the young boy, maybe in his thirties. She approached him and grabbed his hand. “Come with me son.” Her voice was harsh now. He obeyed. They went left three blocks to the Courthouse. They entered the probate judges office, signed the papers, and “Cound Inc” officially had a new successor. She died two weeks later.

The boy she married was named Cyril. He abused his newfound power and eventually was deemed by those in black ties to be, “mentally insufficient for such a stress-inducing position.” But, Blythe’s plan worked. The news stations ate the story up. You should’ve seen the headlines. They say “Cound Inc” lasted only two more years before declaring bankruptcy. Some blame Blythe. Some blame Cyril. None blame the whispers.

The sun isn't shining,
But it will be.
The birds aren't singing,
But they will be.
The weather isn't sweet,
But it will be.
There's no dancing in the street,
But there will be.
The air is not filled with song,
But it will be.
I haven't fixed what I did wrong,
But it will be.

Even if it isn't
Who cares?

It's re-up day,
And when I open that zip lock bag, and inhale the fragrance of maddening bliss,
And pack up, spark the blue butane, and pull the essence inside me,
All the silly ******* will vanish, and I will smile, because Mary Jane always comes back to me.
And when she is with me
The sun shines,
The birds sing,
The weather is sweet,
there's dancing in the street,
The air is filled with song,
I've corrected all my wrongs,
And I smile like a man who is glad to die,
As I take that first hit, from my bubbling ****.

There's a hearse next door,
but I don't know who its for.
The driver is wearing a midnight black derby,
and a midnight black sports coat.
Its plain to see, he's not in a hurry i
I hope its not my fault.

There's an officer at my door,
he has a warrant,
my house he'd like to explore.
There's a goat's head in the tub.
Luckily,
it's invisible.

The rats are building bombs in the walls,
I can hear eggtimers ticking, as I walk through the halls,
sinister squeaking, and cracks in the plaster,
from "The Seventeen dead!" M-80 disaster.
The exterminator says I'm bonkers,
but he runs a white slave ring in Yonkers.

You call me paranoid,
from collected chemical indiscretions,
and laugh as I keep peeking out the blinds,
but even if you don't see them,
they're coming from all directions.
They will get you too, in time.

Maniacs are Golden,
that's why God loves them so much,
they're the only ones that keep in touch,
with both him,
and the Devil.
Maniacs are Golden.
Cut them open and see.