At Her Lowest Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

The sheets were black
perhaps a vivid sign
about the state of it,
why praise the Lord?

She'd slept the afternoon away
and then the night,
to rise but briefly in the day
to sit and reminisce,
inspired by the cold
of yet another toilet seat.

They called, those who still cared.
All friends had scattered though,
since she turned penniless;
a pale and haggard skeleton,
fine portrait of her anorexic days.

There was a silence now,
no clock that ticked, no calls,
text messages were out for now,
she could not know about the state
of one small battery, devoid of life.

And for the first and only time she snored,
a rhythm not without appeal
to spirits from the other side,
and to the silence of a life that hung
like spiderwebs from brittle twigs
as if deciding to descend and find the end
to what had been a mountain of sheer pain.

She had no drugs, they would not sell
to one so destitute, there was no charity.
And so she slept and all her troubles had
escaped through dusty drapes into the night.

The Gods had seen it all and pondered it,
her case was somewhat sad, perhaps unique.
And thus, they smiled their little smiles and let it be,
and she awoke that day and knew she would be free.