Clinical Death (Ottava Rima Poem)

Scrapin’ along long bars, her cup of tea
Was sweeter than honey and the honeycomb.
There were gleams in her eyes and her esprit.
A breeze was comin’ from a funeral home.
The Moon’s hollow eyes climb’d the night to see
The ashes of dead and the fire fill’d with foam.
From dawns o’ hope to sunsets o’ despair,
The leaves were shadows dancin’ in the cold air.

Her rigid body was a glassy slight.
Ne’er dying white lilies threw one off the scent.
Tearin’, roarin’, she felt her soul in light,
In sweet, comin’ death with pitiful lament.
Her soul had terrified wings for her flight.
She was confin’d, lagg’d in fears by devil’s night.
She bestrode the abyss holdin’ the pain.
She could ‘scape of whippin’ memories in vain.

She felt a scent of garbage and perfume.
The fog was in her eyes; she wheez’d in fear.
She search’d the Heaven to dispel her gloom,
But she couldn’t o’erpass her last life frontier,
More than real, o’er her new returnin’ doom,
She lost her happiness, but she felt her tear.
She was aware of all she had to leave
Through her hellish paradise startin’ to reeve.