SHE HAS THE SENSE

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...