In her dying, there is no poetry.
No pretty words to honey the hemlock.
No form to give grace or soft artistry
to the rattle and rasp of the lungs locked
leaden in the brittle cage of her chest.
Shallow, unmetered breaths the pen forgot
to flesh. But, really, what did I expect?
Barren brevity and brutal endings
are the kinds of work the Author does best.
A rough Terza Rima for Form for All at dVerse.