sheets appear like shrouds, my eyes like Monsoon clouds, here on your Autumn bed, like dead leaves I spread. my feet touch floor Winter cold, smiles in Summer sales unsold, I wish Keats had the time to know, my Spring was Frost miles ago.
you slide my cover to burn my child on me, you murder my children to prepare your husband's tea. not a word I say, not a single abuse, the day I lose them all, I'll have nothing to lose. but what about you?