You might ask why I compose poems of this temper.
I say, ‘tis only that someone must . . .
The crate gate grates open
. . . a first in her time,
‘n it startles her,
for the time is now at hand.
Death waits impatiently,
for lives he holds in demand.
His vile sinister executioners crowd near.
Putrid breath shouting obscenities,
brandishing the fire-bolt, intentions clear.
No hope, no mercy, no stay, nor rescue forthcoming,
on this her fateful day.
Nor does she desire another hour.
This solitary moment to know Death’s power!
Brings peace she’s longed her lifelong for.
‘n now ‘tis time she follow Death’s line.
tho’ unworked legs barely bear weight anymore,
the jolts from a bastard’s fire-bolt,
sends her faltering, stumbling to Death’s door—
Where gathered together,
each in turn, indescribably horrifyingly,
their hearts fall heavy, their courage lightens.
Death’s odor, now frighteningly near, ripens.
Tho’ alas! As blood flows, life fades. . .
Her Peace, long passed her by,
now softly closes her tear-stained eyes.
(Rest in peace my fallen fellow earthlings,
for all we’ve done, we’ve done not enough.
‘n it angers ‘n torments me so to see you all go.—
But know, my fallen comrades,
my peace too, shall be forthcoming.
When then we’ll meet ‘n rejoice,
in a realm worthy your becoming—
A Paradise, that dare not a blood price.)