It lies across her trembling palm,
a shroud in miniature—
white linen steeped in whispered harm
that dares not speak too pure.
The lace, in looping filigree,
still dreams of gentler roles:
Of hall and hearth, propriety,
of handshakes, fans, and strolls.
But now it keeps a darker trust,
a vow it never chose:
to catch the breath turned iron-rust–
this rose should not have rose.
She lifts it with a practiced grace,
no flutter of dismay—
as though the stain upon its face
were just the dusk of day.
For she, long-schooled in frailer arts,
in rituals of pallor,
knows how to still her racing heart
and master death’s own valor.
A cough, a bloom, a fading thread—
too real for poets’ lies;
yet still she lifts her noble head
with fire behind her eyes.
And so the linen tells her tale—
not tragic, though it bleeds;
but of a woman, wan and pale,
who will not yield to creeds.
For even suffering, pressed so thin
it ghosts through woven weft,
cannot unmake the might within
the hand that holds what’s left.
Be First to Comment