Sylvia Lupien | + Follow Poet |
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The Girl Who Cried Death

The Girl Who Cried “Death”

The most special woman
To ever walk this world, 
Well, she’s died quite young, 
This, I am told. 

For the ash in her breath
Echos screams, melts her death. 
And her lover screams out loud, 
But, I am told, she makes no sound. 

For in the cracks between dreams, 
She slips in between. 
And no one can listen,
To her, so it seems. 

Because who wants to be 
With the Girl who Cried “Death?” 
And can friends and family
Get a wide enough breadth? 

Death has been her constant
Since she was a child. 
And the whole village 
Always thought her wicked and wild. 

The clouds o’er head
Echoed her mind’s greatest dread. 
That her single thread
That kept her most sane; 
Death would take her love
Before her brain
Collapsed to the ground.

‘Mong the bees and the flies
And ‘mong the soil, 
Watered fresh from the skies, 
Buried ‘neath it, she lies. 

For their Kings and their Queens
Up there on their thrones, they could tame
The mightiest of paws; 
The most fearsome of game.

So that the winter plague, 
Filled with Death and visions vague; 
Destroyed even King
As he lost his loved Queen. 
Soon winter won the game. 

Now, she joins me in the Tower, 
Watches bells toll the hour; 
I cackle again, she has failed. 

And upon the King’s breath
Fizzing out with the snow, 
She gathers her robes 
And she bent her head low. 
And she screamed her last ails. 

For he would go 
To heaven, you see, 
And she was left 
All alone here with me. 

Well, I guess they learned their lesson,
Because this time they didn’t listen,
To the girl who cried “Death.” 
For she reaps what she sow. 

But I’d never do that to her, do you see??
But Death flitters by, he doesn’t trust me. 
As I join the Queens by and by, 
Into their fresh tea,
They let out a loud cry. 
I wonder if she can hear their last breath. 

But I pray that she can’t
As Death’s curtain closes, 
The Queens join hand, 
As they throw Death’s white roses.
I take my nightly bow. 

But what of that wild girl
Whom Death flits between?
And what of her lover? 
So gentle, so sanguine? 
She is safe from Death for now. 

Well, this is not a story,
For that girl, she is me. 
And her lover, well, she
Will remain a myst’ry. 
But Death has her on his list;
Do you see? 
It’s cemented and written
Just ‘bove her right brow.

Copyright © Sylvia Lupien | Year Posted 2025

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