Sheila Stahl

 

I Split Inside

 

I split inside the day he died,
That musty smell, I cried and cried.

 

For forty years, I schemed inside,
The perfect death, I fantasized.

 

The Deacon Prince who caught their eye,
Intrepid pleasure, how he’d bribe.

 

A daughter’s hands quite aptly tied,
A secret borne for family’s pride.

 

A mystic’s yellow-blue-green eyes,
Saw through the wall, all stacked up high.

 

A tongue for years near paralyzed,
Still slow to move, it seemed unwise.

 

And, if the family tree had died,
The horror would have faded by.

 

But seeds once sown, a little child,
And sealed the plan, his fate drew nigh.

 

Her only blood, his only tie,
The knife wiped clean and tossed aside.

 

His withered hands once twisted, writhed,
Now crumpled, calloused, all but died.

 

No skin to seek, no wretched high,
Now on a stone is sketched a lie.

 

 

 

 

Home