She has the sense
to know it's finished
Everything that's kept
her connected
to all that was vital
has been flayed
or torn apart
All that is left
to remind her
of what was, hangs
Tattered, tangled
and twirling striped,
strips the only semblance
signs, or signals
that once she had speech
Before she was broken
Back when she knew
her name
She spoke words,
her own poems.
Now she keeps them:
the words, her voice,
and the poems
in rusted goblets,
beside her bed
Next to the sheets
folded there
waiting for
she knows not what...
