Slaughtered Wives

By Melissa M. Sharp

Forever, I fall under the illusion of chance,

At any waking time, I can.

From the moment the skylarks wake and begin their dance,

Until the fields are filled with snoring lamb. 

The days commence in repetitive motion,

As my imprisoned heart beats in tandem.

Frantically, I drink my crafted potion,

And at last, the world stops at random. 

I am a cacophony of maddened people,

Whose words withered in time for winter.

When the snow had concealed the steeple,

Of the church where the air is bitter.

A freezing breeze swept down the aisle,

Far from the whisper of man,

Where I often ponder in soft beguile,

How far I may have ran. 

Through snow so cold it numbs my feet,

Ceasing me to move, condemning me to stay.

Where my body crumpled, ready to eat,

For an innocent and reluctant prey. 

Rabbits and foxes can live in unison,

If they only took the chance to see,

That when the storm starts to worsen,

They can expect to share harvest in me. 

Where my flesh is red and revoltingly pure,

Dripping from the lapping tongue of a beast,

But never belonging to the animal’s paws,

for it is just a man, howling for his feast. 

Alas, a meal this common can only exist,

On a man’s dining room table,

Where brave women are sorely missed,

And forgotten to the desired fable.

The almost chance – my friend and foe,

Placed this ring on my finger,

Wed me to my death and will always know,

That I never could escape my linger.

By Melissa M. Sharp