|Young Woman Picking the Fruit of Knowledge, 1892 by Mary Cassatt|
Winds no longer blew her hair astray,
The last bout with medicines stifled,
She stared blankly at the side walls,
White, clean and ominously uniform,
She too was an overgrown part of it.
Tranquil, frail and solaced; she lost hope,
Scavenging away tears made her suffocate,
She felt the comfort of death in the air,
She felt its poignant lips kiss her,
As she closed her eyes and breathed.
A relief from the toil seemed afar,
She always held two glasses in her hands,
One was filled with the tears she shed,
The other held the nectar of faith,
Both tasted pathetic now.
But with a final struggle of life,
Her blood raged with an animosity,
She threw away her glass of tears,
Her sight was redeemed with light,
She could feel faith burning, though
Unlike before, she could feel it sweet.
With a brewing desire at life,
She smiled, she laughed and chased butterflies,
She danced, she sang and made others smile,
She dreamed, she hoped and loved all,
She rose, she lived and kissed the skies.