The Stain of Death

The Stain of Death Going into that terrible place A living dust-bin, black bags With clothes and books inside No sign of individuality Packs and stacks of anonymity Nothing there to define her personality But a big stain of vomit on the inside of the toilet There she made her mark in her last hours Nothing else in her house of horrors that lets you know She ever lived there And even that vile stain is only a sign that She died there