Waiting for the other shoe to drop,
the first a gentle tap,
the second a casket lid closing,
an echo spilling grief in your lap.
It’s emptiness in a bottle of cheer,
it’s poison following champagne.
It’s all the hollow platitudes,
it’s the smile to hide the shame.
Violence on an August night,
sealed the silent devil’s lease,
payment a lifetime of heartache,
not for the cursed, but the conceived.
Waiting is waiting for the end,
that moment when life fades,
the second shoe falling to the floor,
the devil’s deal finally paid.
That’s pain, that’s misery,
and that’s victimhood,
for victim is as victim does,
a surrender that’s understood.
It’s no less, but it’ll be no more,
for victims have a voice till the last breath.
All must emerge to find that voice
and raise it till the last.
So, “Take that!” Mister Devil, sir,
our vow of positive independence,
we’ve sharpened voices to wield
to replace the fear we’ll not miss.
©April 2017, Christina Anne Hawthorne