The Test

There was little left of Time
His death a gruesome sight,
His body butchered in a secret hour
In the waking of the night;
 
There was little left of Thought
Throttled with cool, sure hands,
No more he breathes in the crushing dark
He’s fled these living lands;
 
There was nothing left of Hope
Her destruction absolute,
Her tortured screams went long unheard
Her silence now acute;
 
A girl of ghastly deeds remains
A miserable creature is she;
That awful guilt now presses down
As she stares at question No. 3
 
 
 
(c) Paroma Chakravarty 2017
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