A Poet's Choice

She wasn't meant for this world,
a stubborn mangled flower
damaged at the roots,
budding bravely among Darwinian weeds
that muscled without mercy
for their place in the sun.

No real surprise then
to learn that, appalled at the ugliness
and weary of the fight,
she decided to end her life.

Sorrow, like a blanket
wrapped around myself for comfort,
greets the note from a friend
describing the event.
A perfect tragic scene
like those she so admired:
A dozen careful roses at the bedside
in a cabin on the lapping sea,
baby's breath trembling
at her slow subsiding exhalations,
Schubert's songs on the stereo
echoing terminal despair.

It makes me sadder still
to think she chose
another's tear-filled eyes
to witness her farewell.