She cried on her way not herself less apt.
She made her bed with an injured stretch.
Down self, hear the stroke of her whipping hand.
She - injured image shooting in a dance.
Decline I'm worn and falling off the edge.
She cried on her way not herself less apt.
Turning tides torn, her silent agony.
Strangled and scattered waking hope never.
Down self, hear the stroke of her whipping hand.
She cried on her way not herself less apt.
Cruelty can be kept in mind trembling.
Hell accused her and restlessly she sat.
Help! she asked for always being a woman.
She couldn't separate the start from her end.
Down self, hear the stroke of her whipping hand.
Inner pain to the outside off the map.
Her attic holds the red eyes of the dead.
She cried on her way not herself less apt.
Down self, hear the stroke of her whipping hand.
*this poem is inspired by quote "Illness is the night side of life" - Susan Sontag
copyrighted 2010
