Is She Entitled?





Somewhere, in the back of the room, a light glows,
not a bright light, just a cobalt blue hint,
bent by reflective rays and showing only in the smoke.
A choke hold it had on her.
She writhed and moaned
alone, only guttural last sounds heard.
A pastel pink ribbon around her china white throat
twisted and turned in midair ... afloat.
Ballerina slippers of the same pink,
toes pointed perfectly downward.
Her leotard, too big, hangs from her frame.

Her name?
Sarah, as if anyone cares.
Glares from the outside filter in
then spotlight her, hanging there.
Spare was the room, furnishings nil.
Still, there was a beauty about this scene
a last dance performed.
Tormented tears still wet on her cheeks,
She speaks in silence ... so all alone.
For yesterday's sins, she did atone.

A groan from the chandelier, about to snap;
slap of blinds as wind blows through,
Still she spins on tethered ribbon,
Forgiven, as plaster falls from the ceiling.
Reeling back he stumbles, closes his eyes,
cries, screams and runs to her side.
Above him, what he sees makes him bawl.
She is hanging there lifeless as a little rag doll.
Banging his way around in the dark,
he waits for the curtains again to part.

Car horns are blaring below.
He knows he has arrived too late.
Desperate he is!
Down in the streets traffic comes to a halt.
cobalt blue light; noise; the din all make him sick.
The trick is to hold her up, keep her breathing.
Seething in pain, agony's wail he emits.
To wit, it is the end of a life vital.
Is she entitled to a ticket to heaven?



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