Her adult life was a surrealistic endeavor,
An exercise in abiding delusional futility,
Her death really a liberation, an escape,
A blessing in disguise for her but not for me.
Her death not unexpected still haunts me,
The spectacle of her in the coffin bizarre,
Her features swollen and misshapen,
Her death instantaneous upon impact.
The memory of the affair lies cataleptic,
Lurking at the edge of my conscious mind;
Like a phoenix it rises from its own ashes,
From the emotional center of my psyche.
Like a waiting vulture circling overhead,
Her memory swoops to intimidate me at times,
My mind saturated with superfluous guilt,
Like a sailor with an albatross about my neck.


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