With shame she placed
the tattered shreds of being
in darkest night unseeing
and the self of her encased.
The shroud she sewed,
each needle prick of anguish
another point to vanquish
all the stabs at tortured soul.
The dark she roams,
alone she fights the torment
of empty life in need spent
painting self in all her poems.
The truth she feels,
but need is overriding
and truth she jails in hiding
and pretends the lies are real.
And still she knew,
the hope that she had kindled
was dream she spun in wind 'til
it would die just as it grew.
Consuming need,
ate at her mangled half-soul,
'til blackened was the self's whole
as she withered every seed.
And in the truth,
she sank in shame downcasted
for aching need that blasted
a true friendship made to soothe.
But still the want
a barren void to yet fill
digs at her empty self-will
and the hope she carries haunts.
So now she stands,
two roads her only choices,
each cries with siren voices,
"let me take you by the hand"
And one is cold,
a life without fulfillment,
in tortured night the soul spent,
on the longings ever old.
And the other rest,
no anguish to still rend her,
no dreams to ever send her,
seeking life on empty crest.
No choice she has,
the one of empty coldness,
the other of sweet warm death,
life is death she walks at last.©
~RAC 10-29-98~ | 
