A 36.8º Angle Poem by Kathlene Ann

Two straight, red lines cross at a thirty-six-point-eight-degree angle.
Beneath them old scars still sit,
But only these new lines still sting.
Scar lapping scar beneath the new red tide,
Lines cutting lines beneath the new red tide,
So many lines it's hard to hide.

But hiding doesn't matter any more.
My life floats freely towards the door.
Sitting in a lifeboat, ironically,
It floats towards the light at the end of the tunnel steadily
Where dark freedom, black and endless, waits for me.

No one can save me from this 36.8º angle alive upon my arm.
Self-imposed night obscures all but the Light.
Some final twitches shift fingers and limbs that are no longer under my control.
They disturb the clear surface of this wine-colored puddled that dehydrates my soul
And starves my body, from which it strays.

At last I think I will be free.
Wait.
Hold.
What's this blur I see?
Will you, at last, come to save me? ...

Life lifts her golden head to watch him come and unite in love with him,
With Death.
Handsome silver-maned devil, Death silently embraces Life,
Who waited for her other lover with her very last breath.
Was that final shadowy blur
The man who had brought her happiness
Before Death?