The way she laid supine on the floor, supine to the injustice, and submissive to the destruction she calls her life. The way she calls the denouement, cries at dawn, and depends on the distant, twisted memories of being his housewife. This way of life is a flame. Flickering and flickering, burning all in sight, and we pray for the twilight to please swallow the light. We burn, yet we still follow, only to see her wallow. The concern turns to discern. Finally, we can recognize the flame was in her eyes, all in her own making, and we cry.

We cry for the loss of a wife,
A mother,
A sister,
A daughter,
A lover,
A life.

The way she laid supine in her coffin which she calls her life. The way the true denouement slowly creeps and consumes the stage like a shadow. The flame burns darker. Slowly flickering and flickering until swallowed by the darkness of her own making. We turn away, to heal our burns, to swallow our tears. The concern was adjourned. Finally, we grow to despise the disguise, watch the undertaking go by, and we learn to somehow stop crying.