She cradles her head between her hands

as if dispatched by Madam la Guillotine.

Eyes tightly closed, hair stickier wet than the dew

blood spouting from fissured jugulars.

As her head fell, it left a blood-red stain

Upon Madame's blade, upon the gravelled stone court. 

She cradles her head between her hands

too tired to hold erect when cradled in Hypnos arms

Sleep overwhelms her, sleepier still, yet unslept.

Maybe nights for her are not as was

wide awake when light is darkly invisible.

Upon his bed, held down by his gravelled stoned palms. 

She cradles her head between her hands

as though saving the full impact on John McAdam

Death has become her, limbs distorted, pointing

to various cardinals of a Boy Scouts compass

A short uninterrupted downward spiral

to the cold hard gravelled stoned road below