The door closed <br />On her <br />As she fiddles with the <br />Hunting knife <br />Feeling its surgical sharpness <br />And its dread potential <br />To kill herself. <br /> <br />She draws the bath <br />And watches the waters whirl. <br />Someone said to her <br />That to live is to suffer <br />And suicide was merely a giving-in. <br /> <br />She pondered her arm <br />And where the sheath of dead dreams <br />Lay. <br /> <br />In all <br />On her <br />Was the dream <br />Of dreaming no more; <br />So she dropped the knife <br />Into the warm waters <br />And retired for another <br />Desperate night of fright- <br />For fear engenders fear itself <br />And always comes true <br />On her.<br /><br />Stan Petrovich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-her-2/
