Poem from the Voice of Dementia (2005-2006) collection
No flash of blades or roar of guns
Could harm the fragile heart.
No demon was ever that strong
To rip the soul apart.
Hurt would pelt like drops of rain
And like bullets it would hit.
Couldn't make them surrender life,
Couldn't render them unfit.
All failed - the bolts of thunder -
Each tear, each fear.
The story ended at last,
When death whispered in my ear.