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BadBunny Sep 11
Do you hear the suffering,
and cries.
Do you see the desperation
in my eyes.
Do you see the drowning
of your lies.

Can you feel, Mrs. Black Widow?
Or is your heart black as coal,
and your mind void of hope?
Lily Jul 16
I started with my dress,
The white one with the black flowery design.
I added my black scarf, draping it
Casually around my head,
Trying to stop my thoughts from drifting
To what I was dressing up for.
I slipped on my sandals and then
Slipped out the door,
Not slamming it because that felt like
An ending.
I didn’t want another ending.
Walking into the church,
The temperature went up 50 degrees,
And my anxiety went up 100.
I shook hands with the extended family,
Hugged your widow,
And comforted your grandchildren.
I made it through the opening liturgy,
Your favorite hymn, and the obituary.
I even stopped my tears from falling
During your granddaughter’s touching eulogy,
When she started sobbing up there on the altar.
Afterwards, I sat through the meal,
Everything tasting like cardboard in
My mouth as the temperature kept increasing.
Near the end of the night,
When the church was clearing out,
I went back to the food,
Craving a final bite of cheesy potato casserole
Before I could finally leave this night behind.
Yet when I get there,
The tray is cleaned out,
And there is no more cheesy potato casserole.
That’s when I finally break down and sob.
I didn’t get that last bite of
Cheesy potato casserole.
Sometimes the simplest things kill you.
Irate Woman
The woman was irate because she had received a Dear John letter
It stated that her husband's ship had vanished and he  was MIA
The military was looking for it but it was an active war zone

Any in-depth search would have to wait till the battle was won
By then it could be too late for her dear husband and his buddies
What was their fate?

Were they even now clinging to life rafts
Or were they at the bottom of the seabed eaten by fishes
The cost of the most bitter war in human history

A conflict bigger than Jesus and ignored by God
Heathen men fighting religious men all killing one another
With equal efficiency and lethality for their respective governments

One result of this was the irate American woman who was now crying
Sadness replaced her annoyance and anger
It dawned on her, the fact: I'LL NEVER SEE MY HUSBAND AGAIN

She became more than irate
Decades of tears started to fall
That letter changed things forever...
Aa Harvey Jun 28
A weep of fate


There was a man sat on a bench, waiting for his bride to arrive;
There was a woman outside a church, wiping the tears from her eyes.
Today was the day his future bride would have arrived;
Today was the day her husband had lost his life.


The tears that poured down from his eyes,
Created the puddle in which her reflection lied.
Her smile told of beauty, of love and of radiance;
When inside all she felt, was the end of all romance.


She handed him her handkerchief and asked what was wrong;
The words fell from his mouth, unwittingly like a song.
His bride, he said, had not arrived.
His heart was broken; his love-life had died.


She offered him comfort and he thanked her for caring,
Then she spoke of her lover and his death left her crying.
As the two of them talked, she embraced all his words,
As she realised he was just like her.


She suddenly stopped and apologized for talking,
For she had come over in the first place,
To maybe aid him, whilst she was herself in mourning.
As he told her his tale, it saddened her to see,
The man was still in mourning, for his bride to be.


One year before, in a collision with a car,
She too had died and floated away up into the stars.
Coincidence, this may have been.
Two lovers were now lost, to never be;
But with a simple twist of fate, new lovers would exist…


Their misery had given them a connection.
Their love was so strong, it left a lasting impression.
Now twenty two years later, at the graveyard she weeps;
For the twice widowed woman,
Has lost her man of mourning in his sleep.


(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
A flake of gold I found in your soul
A boom town it shall never be,
Except for the one digging your hole
How you were left suffering.

Curse those murderous mines
And damn those mosquitoes,
I wish it were me a thousand times
Your soul off to greener meadows.

Don't be scared to cross the gate
Baron Samedi now guides,
Loneliness to acclimate
A widow's final goodbye.


"I never knew afterwards for how many hours of that journey I had flown with a corpse for company because, when I landed, the man was quite dead." ~ Beryl Markham
James Jun 26
Wind snaps through wild grain sprouted along the edge of the harbour
The aching creaks of the windmill over head orchestrate a haunting song
An appropriately ominous farewell to our weary sailors
Just beyond the port, we stand freshly alone and wait
We wait as they begin to vanish into the same fog from which they had appeared just a week ago
We watch as their vessel becomes a mere imperfection against a looming wall of clouds
And as they fade into the horizon, the sky darkens in anticipation of unavoidable ruin
Towering clouds shed foreshadowing tears
Weeks will pass, two months past when they should have returned will have come and gone
The same haunting cries of the windmill will soon be joined by echoing church hymns
Adorned in black veils and white flowers, we will be bathed by the same sorrowful clouds
Oppressive clouds will hang low above a candlelit procession
These fate burdened clouds will begin to weep, raindrops mingling with widows' tears
Painting: Windmill at Wijk bij Duurstede by Jacob van Ruisdael
Rain droplets are
My tears tonight,
There's no moonlight
Through my windows;
Passion's burning like
Incandescent through
These lonely nights,
It's hard to close my
Eyelids they fight,
To close in these sorrows,
For I'm a widow.
Category: love
To absent is my heart that beats

And bitter tears inside me weep



Amongst the crowds I am alone

I live each day yet have no home



My soul drops like a weeping willow

The life long journey of a widow
K Paige Mar 9
these synthetic lights are too loud
the microphone keeps
threatening to take off my head

i don’t want to be a part of this cast anymore
the script is grim, defected
infecting my nights as i fixate on the plot,
which
            baffles
                        me
with its steady flow of crisis

the director keeps demanding dramatic theatricals from me
we rehearsed this particular scene a few dozen times
i’m in an airport terminal
a woman bears to me grave news of a man
who has drowned himself
screeches erupt from the mouth of a child

end scene

now the final production has been released
i’m sitting in the audience
my life is happening on the screen
there are
                earthquakes
                                       in my veins

i am the director of this film

roll the credits
but don’t give me credit for this

-k.p.-
Mrs Charming Feb 15
Not every trigger is on a gun.

Sometimes it is an action movie with explosions and car chases. My eyes close just before the cars collide.

Sometimes it is an eggplant in the middle of the store. The soft, purple flesh, bruised from a seatbelt.

Sometimes it is feeding a fire and being hit in the face with smoke from an engine.

Sometimes it is a nature show. Watching deer walk silently through the woods, bears awakening from hibernation, trees falling with such force that they fracture like bones.

Sometimes it is walking around the hospital and stumbling upon the labor unit. Hearing the familiar howls of pain as babies are pulled from their mothers and she is pulled from the car.

Sometimes it is waiting in line at the DMV. Watching the clock. Waiting for my number to be called and knowing that this is deja vu.

Sometimes it is hearing sirens rush by while I'm shopping and wondering if the socks I've just picked up, are the same shade of blue as her face in the back of the ambulance.

The trigger is on the neck of the bottle that puts me to sleep, when the barrel reaches my lips.

It is time to pull the trigger and empty the bullets into my grief and sorrow. I will lay them to rest in the plot beside my wife. Watching them flourish with forget me nots.
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