Her face, pressed into the pillow
Drained black tears onto white linen.
Her fight had been lost; the long battle had ravaged her
And her iconic war paint scrawled ironic defeat in tracks
Down her pale skin onto paler sheets.
A motionless husk; as she lays there;
Her raven hair, unravelled from familiarity,
Her raven hair, unravelled from familiarity,
Falls delicately on her back,
Carefully caressing her cold shoulders;
Shielding her from the dawn of life from which now
She has withdrawn.
Soft silhouettes draped across pleated sails,
Her frail body, brittle and delicate, finally rested.
Tested beyond its limits, too high the cost
And too great the affliction.
Lost in the struggle of the addict
To the addiction.
And now her Palladian palace enshrines,
As the afternoon sun shines through gaps
In drawn blinds.
A silent room, ordered and decided,
Expects an arrival beyond the survival
Of the girl that had no more to lose.
In a time where spirits take spirits, she;
Three lifetimes lived in seven and twenty.
But here, at the very end in her empty home,
The girl that thought she was nothing,
Died for nothing,
Alone.
Copyright © 2011 by Simon Austin
Copyright © 2011 by Simon Austin
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| Amy Jade Winehouse 1983 - 2011 |
