PAIN OF A WIDOW

Pitch black is the night.
Of a lurking moon.
The door creeks.

With a swoosh.
Blowing away the blood stained cotton.
Screams fill this air.
With the stench of blood from the rug.

There she lies.
With her neck slit.
She committed nothing.
But a crime yet to commit.

A crime the future
tells of marriage.
Must be avoided!
but she cant