The silence itself was a somber lament,

An accompaniment of the song of death.

Upon drooping shoulders, it pressed its grievous vehemence,

Reminding the loved ones of their lost;

As disconsolate words pressed on bleeding wounds,

Ashes of the deceased slipped through fragile fingers;

Caught in the grasp of the wind.

Tears were not suppressed as they bade farewell,

Embedding him into their book of memories.

Hands clasped my shoulder, their hue ashen under a sunless sky,

'Condolences, my love.'

I stood with them , feigning torment, feigning heartbreak -

Yet the ghost of a joyous smile lingered at my lips

For he was dead.

The fervent passion of hatred drove me from the

sweetness of innocence to contemptible wickedness.

His facade was unfounded, as was my abuse,

My pain, the death of my beloved unborn child.

At his hands my suffering was an infinite nightmare.

Drowning in angst and heartbreak,

He beat every ounce of love and sanity out of me.

And so I pulled the trigger.