If I was death I would slay the cruel and foolish hope
which fills my brain with wicked trickery;
optimistic fiction posing as reality.
Never more would I be its slave
It would not be there to trap me on the brink,
then wait, wait a day or a week
and drop me back into the bitter, heart-rotting river of loss,
letting me hiccup and choke before sinking in tear-slicked grief;
timing it to agonising perfection,
then reaching with half-rinsed hand, grabbing me
and again lifting, lifting me that little bit, pulling me to the edge,
air drying my dripping frame with electric breeze,
showing me re-mastered images of reconstituted love ones
fully healed and smiling at their family.
Never freeing me to face the final pain
and crawl out alone, to build an honest strength;.
The tinny key to my regeneration.
©Jane Paterson Basil