I am gone. I am no more.
Gone — with the speed of a needle’s prick.
Devoid of speech they called me “dumb”.
‘Twas I alone who knew the secrets of her heart;her joys, sorrows, moods.
I wiped her tears understandingly, reassuringly. Friend, confident protector — but I am gone. She alone perceived my illness. Knew when my time for being was enough. Could she love me as much as I loved her? Would love conquer selfishness? She’ll wear the title “murderess”.
One word from her, my mistress, the deed done.
Suffering ceases. Eternal sleep comes. Named Love, I am gone . . .
Could she have not risen to the occasion would I have loved her with such sweet abandon?
| Carolyn Ann Widmer |