The time has come, sacred moments dissolve,
Death is near, in fevered sleep she shudders,
Which God will intercept, which will absolve
The cruel execution of all she was.
The tarot cards laid, a commitment of words,
Symbols splayed like scattered bones—
She gazed at the past without shame,
Misfortune befell her, but she bore no blame.
Her Mama didn’t tell her, but she was pregnant with hope,
A fragile thread spun in the thick silence of her family.
He never wanted her; his cruelty the well she fell into,
Distant, manic decisions thickened the air with dread.
A loyal stranger came—one she remembered.
His face, a forgotten constellation,
Lush with delicate promise, a future reimagined,
Yet lost without him, innocence reborn
Only in the darkened quiet of mourning halls.
Her home, her body, no pardon granted,
A flight of black-winged lies,
Receding violin strings, a violent serenade—
The twinkle of mischief in a past love’s eyes,
A storyteller spinning laughter to mask the wounds.
Will reality recover in celebration,
Or crumble under the weight of sacred shame?
No certainty remains, only the violin’s wail,
And the thick silence of her family—
Forever in mourning, forever without absolution.
