Here is the blind woman led down that awful cold corridor
There are no colors. The mile is a dark, deathly slate,
and we see the wired eyes, smell the putrid coffee breath
See the vile sneer, her chapped lips curled, and we sense
her dread, her nameless, impending, savory end.
The watchmen, erect, thin fingers poised for the kill
Glare at the subdued monster, and they cringe at her
sour Cheshire Cat grin, and soon she will leave our
grim carnival where no more clowns caked in bright makeup
gawk and guffaw, and be a wilted rose in heaven
Her grubby, greasy hands that dined on fried chicken and fries
hang listless, washed of those lepers’ blood, the seven demons
that defiled, tore at her plump flesh. Here is the cursed martyr
Standing by her plush grave, silent, waiting for her final sleep.
Her soul grieves, having avoided the slumber to only meet her
last hour, guilty to us yet spotless in her plight.
Here is a coursing stream of dark matter. We direct the hatred,
everything flawed and deranged, at her. The poison is ready,
and those smudged fingers haven’t struck our cheeks, but she
leaves a lingering sting of somber quiet. We are marred,
and we glance away as she jeers, “I’ll be back! I’ll be back!”
That last meal was consumed…was her hunger appeased?
And those elongated teeth tearing, gnawing at meat and bone,
her desire to steal life, present at those men’s deaths,
Fleeting into the eerie nights, would they join the phantom throng and
Would she be spared from Hell? There is no reply.
Here is a chilling doom, a pest, an enduring sorrow, and we
Watch the clock, perched above us, strike the hour, her flight.
She craves justice, and the scoffs ring clear, her stomach
Growls, screaming to escape our surreal pantomime, the
Vicious, decayed teeth of her prison cell bars. “I’ll be back!”
Here, in the grim white room, is shame. She is marked.
Stained, blotted, humiliated like Hester, her figure dyed blood red
and doomed, an outcast. Her aghast look is fixed.
Those eyes, two endless cauldrons, black, grimy, cracked
Bloodshot, watery, and crazed as she yearns to slay her betrayers.
And here, at this hour near her end, is the child, her dour offspring
Her deed ruminates in that stinking ditch, where those despicable
Sleeping corpses are strewn, those vile, slain, silent men
They provide a looking glass, an exhibit of disgusting filth, of death
The end of them ended her. Her offspring serves as the bookend
awaiting down that hall, that lethal mile, the carnival’s end.
And here she cries, “I’ll be back! I’ll be back!” A wilted, unfurled rose,
her burnt vanilla bean skin, brown, tainted by the watchmen, their
gobs of spit hanging from her, she slips into the plush bed,
far from comfortable, for this eternal sleep will overwhelm her.
The poison enters, the hour arrives, and the Father leads her away.
Here is the horror, how ghastly, where her shell slackens, then stiff
And now we see but a thick veil, a morbid cloak strewn over her mouth
A jagged reflection of this madness, her terror, horrorstruck,
Lips gaping, the horror identical to the seven slain men, the
Curse of this tale, a dark, dank, rotten, filthy madhouse.
It’s her carnival.
And here we leave, the hour has passed, it’s over.
The makeup is wiped from our faces, but we still look absurd.
We are, in her warped psyche, still clowns, our verdict empty
As our reaction, and now only a withered, greenish stump.
We are gone. We know only her curse, but her?
No, she remains an enigma.
