With a sickle, a handgun, an idea, a loss.
She is beaten and abused, manipulated and used...
(Misunderstood by complexity of emotion and
now she'll abuse.)
She'll blot out her daughter, her husband, the dog.
Her coworker, her husband, her mother, her Gods,
the kept lawn, the green grass, the Tupperware snobs,
the stale mixers, the falsehoods, the two car garage...
Oh the misery within the tangled human vine,
She will stay inside a red velvet box in her mind...
With a sickle, a handgun, an idea, in due time..
The burden will be lifted and freedom she will find:
just as, just when..
Her wrists spill crimson wine..
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