The door closed
On her
As she fiddles with the
Hunting knife
Feeling its surgical sharpness
And its dread potential
To kill herself.
She draws the bath
And watches the waters whirl.
Someone said to her
That to live is to suffer
And suicide was merely a giving-in.
She pondered her arm
And where the sheath of dead dreams
Lay.
In all
On her
Was the dream
Of dreaming no more;
So she dropped the knife
Into the warm waters
And retired for another
Desperate night of fright-
For fear engenders fear itself
And always comes true
On her.
Stan Petrovich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-her-2/
