On the wings of death

What was she thinking when she killed herself?
by Shen Qiaoyun

The blood still glistens on the blade of her knife;
When no one was looking, she’d taken her life.

Alone she lies, angelic and calm,
She’ll no more awaken when tomorrow comes.

Is that a smile on her pale, ashen face?
Or a grimace wrung out of a lifeless place?

Would that for a minute she can speak again;
Would that for a second I can hear her pain.

But death holds fast to those it calls;
Questions left unanswered on the parabolic wall.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

What of the years that had led to her end?
What had befallen that her heart couldn’t mend?

Was there naught in her eyes could preserve life’s sanctity?
Love, money, health? Or family or beauty?

Did she look at the world and see only strangers?
A world so unkind it could only slowly change her?

Did she find sleep every night on alcoholic wings?
Was it rest from the weariness that ceaseless tears bring?

How many troubled years had she carried the pain?
On the day she decided that death must reign?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And there laid out on her fresh made death bed,
She’d cut herself, and her last tears shed.

Was she cradled by bliss, did peaceful death slake her?
Was she wracked by doubt and did agony take her?

Did she die with a smile as she whispered, “I’m done.”
Or did she yearn for a moment for the deed undone?

Did her life flash past like a runaway train?
Did she weep for the ones who’d inherit her pain?

As her hands went slack and the knife did fall,
What was she thinking? Was she thinking at all?