Ligature Mark
It was the illusion of tears
and nothing more,
the rain couldn’t wash away the fears,
but it was looking to seed,
as it collected in small beads,
and ran to the hollows of her face,
her dark brown eyes were fixed wide,
lost was her grace,
she had nothing left inside,
she stared across a wet pavement,
but she didn’t see a thing,
as comfort was what the rains would bring,
during the rainfall she didn’t budge,
her clothing were dirty and smudged,
blood dripped,
her clothes were ripped,
blotted red where life ran out,
a single ligature mark,
the deep impression of a cord or rope,
was the ending of all hope,
the impression traveled the entire
circumference of her neck,
crisscrossing,
just below the base of her head,
it was mind tossing,
as she sat there, dead.
© 2012 Frank Atanacio