She leans over her grave and weeps,
the trees beneath the barren hills bow their heads,
as the raving winds bellow through the arcade of bushes around her head.
the trees join quietly in the ceremony.
Tears streams down her lean drag face,
flooding the pillow under her grave.
In silence she undresses
the misery of her past.
riddled with puzzles,
laden with mysteries
each segment opposed.
The writhing lasted two hours,
blades, penetrates her head,
spilling blood all over her bed.
Frenetic screams climbs the hills,
whipping the wind into a raging storm
through the room.
She rips the pillow beneath her head,
smashing the radiant mirror across the bed.
Beyond, there was no answer.
Her moaning increased, but her pains did not cease.
She falls asleep directly on her grave,
with the weeping knife protruding from her chest.
©2013 Christine Phillips