Afterthought 908—Sonnet -4

Posted in nothing special, sonnet, sonnet cycle by maggie on 2016/02/16
The hell of every death she claims: she died
inside her mother's void, then died at birth 
without a cry, then every step on earth
died yet again. She took vows as a bride
and died. She died in every move she tried
to make. Be it deluge, be it dearth,
she died. She died until it wasn't worth
her dying further, death to her denied.
No autopsy was sought, no inquest called.
No funeral rites were held. No gravestone marks
the hillside where her body last was placed
facedown, a scrap of fast-decaying waste.
Run away, far off her dog still barks
his mourning, by the night's black prison walled.
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