I wanted to save her, she was always the one.
But the bony fingers of death had polished its gun.

I wanted to save her, ignore her strong will.
But her expiration date was stamped, on each prescribed pill.

I wanted to save her, promise her life.
But the long blades of freedom, had carved her a knife.

I wanted to save her, the things she could have learned.
But her lungs exhaled smoke, as the cigarette still burned.

I wanted to save her, to show her a path.
But the murky waters intrigued her, a blood stained bath.

I wanted to save her, a melody to be sung.
But her neck lay mangled, her body left hung.

I wanted to save her, I loved her to death.
But the decrepit night consumed her, it had stolen her breath.

—  Beatrice Marie