Odd events breed strange emotions,
instances not knowing;
sometimes simply where she is
or often where she's going.
Holding onto slender threads,
mere traces of lucidity
when she knows not what is happening,
he credits to her stupidity.
In escaping from his cruel barbs,
his put-downs, his abuse,
she long gave up on trying;
too much stress, so what's the use?
If it's more peaceful in the 'nothing' world,
perhaps it's kinder then, to leave her;
misery with him forty years,
would not clarity sorely grieve her?
© 2018 cherryk
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