Her Secret Death Was Another Redundant Death Poem by James McLain

She helped to feed the poor
and shoed their cold bare feet.

She had a habit of sweet trust,
that few other's tried to meet.
Her eyes that loved the light
sometimes sleeping under the moon.

Though the night was not the sun,
some of those she helped hid their dark thoughts.
Her face beneath the mask flowed into
each body that she met and a few could feel her pain.

Her body when they found it bore a stain,
it was ripped and swallowed whole.
Washed in time and lost in human pain,
bathed in their tears of misery.