SHE IS CREDITS - By Libby Bramble

Her breath has stopped.
That hazy humid mist of parted lips,
That hiss, that wordless lisp
Through gapped teeth
And cheeks

Departed.

Her hands and feet are stiff.
The frosty heels won’t
Tread through fires below
The hands won’t pray
With love

To those above.

There is no beat of blood
Beneath her flesh,
Inside her neck,
Within the skin,
Like honey dripping, slipping

Out and in.

Her thoughts and memories
Now are at an end
She’s said her final lines
The audience has gone
To bed
For she is credits
She is memory repeats
She is static

She is dead.

Beautifully simple and elegant. It feels like sand slipping through an hourglass.

Lovely imagery and simplicity. It really hits it for me. This is great.