Emily
In a run-down church somewhere
a girl kneels and cries
while wiping back the auburn hair
that sticks around her eyes.
She has no hope,
it’s all been lost.
She’s tied the rope
and seen it tossed.
Sirens sound, bright like sun,
she cries harder,
she’s brought a gun.
Down she goes, the last true martyr.
In the moments before self prosecution:
“Please, God, I pray for absolution.”
Copyright © Ema Kenyon | Year Posted 2017
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