misfortune dwelled in their

shattered souls

beneath a dry,

hollow, and dull

Oaktree

they lived

as if they lived with Death herself

thirteen broken souls

wandering endlessly in a sea of gray

fog and mist

of tears and blood.

plague befell them, and the first of thirteen

dropped dead in her bed

limp and lifeless, her sisters found

a cold corpse contemplating them

the putrid stench of a decaying body

defiled their soft, pink noses.

Grief saw

an opportunity:

the second and third

were consumed by fear

turned against each other

and a drop of scarlet 

stained the soft dirt of the hole

as the second of thirteen,

took her last breath

the third of thirteen, consumed by guilt,

fell like a withered leaf

crumbling against the trodden ground

forgotten like dust in the wind

the fourth said,

“they’re dropping like flies”

and indeed they were

a tiny black figure

stalked the fourth, and landed on her

long, tender ears.

its deathly poison seeped into her veins,

as the foul vessel of Death flew away

searching for another victim.

the fourth of thirteen

shrieked in agony

crying so painfully

it shook the heavens.

at last, she lay

on the dirt, soaked in blood and tears

Her earthy brown coat glistened with blood

she lay where her sister once lay

her final resting place.

the fifth watched her sisters in horror

as they departed from this world

to see a new beginning.

she, crying, said to herself,

“are they not worth fighting for?”
so she picked up a wooden stick

and ended her pain

with the sharp, stony edge of

the arrow.

the archer fell, limp and lifeless

just like her other sisters.

the remaining thirteen watched in horror

like helpless prey at the jaws of a ravenous tiger

harassed by Death’s cackling

the sixth, seventh, and eighth of the thirteen

prepared a tiny grave

five tiny graves, standing in a row

and five limp bodies

sleeping underneath.

the sixth dug, while the seventh buried

the eighth sobbed in despair

before immolating herself in the flames of

Death

the other two sisters, torn by grief

of the death of their little sister

looked at each other, and nodded

before diving into the little river

and disappearing into the voids of their hearts

devoured by the water

the ninth, tenth, eleventh, and twelfth, 

the younger of the thirteen

made a silent vow

to never speak again.

to eliminate all pains and desires

to end all grief, and scrub away any traces of

Sublime emotion.

so they disappeared into the shrubs,

enveloped by the whispers of despair

And were never to be seen again

finally, the thirteenth,

taunted by Death, cried

and cried

for her sisters to return.

every day she waited

by the stream, her soft milky pelt rustling in the breeze,

waiting for her sisters to return to her arms.

her eyes glowed dimly, white as pearls and lifeless.

each night the moon’s soft light illuminated the withered figure,

and she stood still as stone, as if Death had made a memorial out of her

caught in a perpetual cycle of grief

eternally tormented by Death.