PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

A soft knock on the door resounds through the peaceful home,
The un-knowing widow coming to the door,
Wiping wet hands on a torn, stained apron.
She opens the door softly, the safety chain tautens,
And seeing her visitors, she cautiously invites them in, dreading what they have to say,
She hopes beyond hope as the uniformed heralds of death enter.

They accept a tea, unwilling to broach the subject upon why they came.
They start softy, speaking quietly, placing china teacups gently on the table as they speak, Speaking slowly, quietly, giving her time to absorb their grim tales.
She sits stunned, drained of all colour,
Unfocused eyes unblinking, unstaring, set deep in aged folds of skin,
Tears streaming down a mute, careworn face,
Leaving silver trails of silent grief,
Unacceptance flows through her thoughts,
Empathy, portrayed on the heralds faces' almost confirm her paranoid suspicions.
Denial, stuttering denial, reassured with gentle words,
Suspicion and paranoia, then calm acceptance,
All go through her head in a flash, only briefly displayed on her face,
Before being smothered by a sense of dignity and independence.

She refuses all offers of help and companionship,
The charade holds until the uniformed leave,
Wooden door closing with a final, last click.
Then torrents of fear, loss and love fall freely as the façade falls,
- A true widow emerges.

                                                        ~ ~ ~

Weeks later old friends gossip behind an uncaring back.
She's tired of seeking comfort where non is available,
Only a detatched pity, safe behind the walls they build,
But horror soon a more common emotion on watching faces,
Distaste and scorn at the black-dressed ghoul,
Symbolising all the fear and dread.

Old friends gossip behind an uncaring back.

She walks with mechanical routine,
Unaware of whispering, the scared faces, the glaring truth,
Floating through days lost,
Perhaps for the good, Never to be lived again.

Her face and mind are empty, Devoid of all concious thought.
She exists in her more happy memories, of happy times, before all changed,
Drifting through past days in a dream,
Her concious mind empty.

She denies all cause for cencern with fake assurances,
Refusing all half-hearted offers of help,
Made out of a distastefull sense of duty,
The offerers turn their heads to hide their relief,
The black-dressed widow left to float through life,
Unaided, uncomforted, neighbours unwilling to catch her uninfectous disease.