Death's Rollcall Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

Solemnly marching to an inner tune of melancholy, treading
carefully, stepping sorrowfully through life, attuned to
it's misery.

Wringing hands, crying silently in a darkened room, hurt
fostered again, thought of from long ago.

Saturated with the emptiness of life, hidden in a corner,
no one understanding or caring.

A balance of equality is not an issue for there can be no
balance when sorrow is involved.

Faded, non-descript, mangled by the incessant intolerance
of another.

Wretched memories playing their mind games, threatening
abandonment in the most obscene ways possible.

No doubts that effects will take place to push one to
suicide - no more empty threats, sitting on tomorrow's
horizon will be recognized.

Life will end because it was too small to hold the
contemptuous sorrow poured out by others with no thoughts
of the effect it would have on one person in particular,
already hanging over the edge.

Feet and legs already committed to jumping off the side and
into the pit of life-long death.

Cordoned off to the ends of earthly roaming, satisfied now
that death has taken it's roll call.