The drumbeat of death
pounds without mercy.

She stands betwixt East and West—
a tempest born of the North.

Where have you gone?
Opioid to the heart-wrung.

A gown lies wrought upon the bed,
high heels scattered on the floor.
The girl sits silent at the edge—
and naught remains.

Some perish behind hospital walls.
Most wither
behind the walls of their own souls.

She said, “You’re not my kind—
don’t take it personally.”

The executioner’s smile
is ever just beyond reach.
Then the jester weeps.

Life is a thread
of fleeting encounters,
each fading
into the ever-hungering void.