Cinerous Drops of November Rain.

Every wake and then, she raises her head...
Stretching her arms, to soak sunlight inside.
She has not forgotten, that her husband is dead...
Although it's been years now, and her tear ducts have dried.

"There is nothing to live for," she thinks out loud...
Adressing the audience of her lone, weary heart.
Her window is the sheet, with pillows of cloud...
To woe be the widow, even her brightest is dark.

Remniscient regret, tears hungrily at her composure...
For she struggles with the weight of misery's bitter cold.
She's breaking down slowly, losing disclosure...
It won't be long, until she lets go of her soul.

One day of fate, must have been quite enough...
She dropped the seconds, that only got tough...
Just like her husband, the rope felt powerful in hand...
She tied it to her neck...
And hung herself from the fan.