She holds curtains Before her trailing eyes, Then asks the world, "Where were all those loathsome goodbyes That never came, before the end?" Trails come as journeys To tears, never-ending. For her, life threw turns to her, Sobbing beneath the blackest veil Thrown over trembling shoulders. Her neck is a bath For the bucket, the rope To be sunken. Her chair, her rest, Not for posture, though to stand. Loosened tears, Come trailing From fiery fears. We wield the cure for her Held between our teeth. Oh, love, Can you come down To see her, before she sets her wings To soar? Can you come, before she is cut to the floor?