Here in the evening she’s finding relief

breathing slowly


Free from the lights for the last seven marks

etched into Kala’s rock

Counting the seconds, scratching the lines

Fastening sutures


Sitting in stillness, steady she weeps

and quietly waits for a sign

As she is drifting, the melodies rise

Her mind is creating

as if for a lark

images made to play tricks on her eyes,

that morph into sound as light becomes dark

Invisible phantoms are singing his songs

With each gust of wind

the voices wail

weaving together a lyrical braid

forming a gruesome new tale

Suspended above her, a mobile of sound

tilling her dreams

planting doubt

Fear is the seed and water the song

By morning it’s started to sprout

The night is forgotten, she’s stirring to wake

the one hundred and

sixty-eighth day

She walks to the river in absence of pain

and lowers to water her face

Water runs cool the length of her neck

hands on her eyes

Silent, Dark

the embers that faded some hours ago

slowly return to a spark

The nightmare returns as she opens her eyes

the river reflecting

his favorite place

The fires of shame start to burn her alive

the moment she looks at her face

Though she hasn’t spoken a word since he died

her reflection asks

What have you done?

The watery face starts to





as it whispers…

You murdered your son.