Panes of glass,
Those aquamarine orbs of yours,
fall inward, splintering.
And pepper soft grey matter,
scar as they pierce
Now only dark holes remain
of those tragic eyes,
The eyes of promise, radiating
in peaceful co-existence,
with your nose and mouth.
And are those straight-arrow brows
not mimicking a mushroom cloud?
Arching upward, splaying as they mark
the point of detonation.
And thus,
The silhouette lingers,
a testament to your personal
Final solution.
Jane Wanlklin
1997.