The dying writer lay on her bed.
Her soul to pass the final barrier,
Weight of a life’s troubles fell in her head;

Many years ago passed her warrior.
And following that her shame
Transposed a life’s success to an inferior

To one of endless torment and blame.
Yet, before her last cinder smouldered into ashes.
There emerged one more phoenix from the flames.

In a smile from her youthen brash.
She mouthed a few words free.
“Before the Keeper and I clash,

Let my final words merely be:
“At last, the Angels have come for me”.”

The End

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