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Hilda, the Grief Woman (attempt at Prose Poetry) (1 Viewer)


Senior Member

Let the lover drink herself to death, just what is wrong with her? She ends up hoping, laying on her bed to remember the dead and to grieve for her husband, let the lover drink poison and die a sweet death.

She can recall the past but the past cannot come back, she must remember that her days will be up like
an hourglass, the lost time it shows will know that has lived a life no one ever could.

She has done what others haven’t done: living a life with honesty and sacrifice, she can rest easy.


Her days are coming to an end, in the darkest of night inside a home of only a candlelight and a rickety bed she remembers her husband and writes on paper how she was going to die. She will perhaps crumble that paper if it gets too emotional for her. She knows she will die from the poison she has drank.

She, Hilda, will see herself in the image of an angel in heaven forevermore with God by her side. That celestial light is coming she thinks and she continues to write as the poison sweeps into her system. She will die die die die and death will claim another life!


Hilda, the woman sleeps, she has died. And will never come back to earth again, in the darkest of night on the night she died, no one noticed her sprawled on the ground. As she was there to rest in peace. No one bothered to give her a tombstone. Now she grieves no more.