The Housewife.

Down the stairs, the dark dank corridor,
in the steam piled kitchen,
she stands, she aches - life has lost her.
Dusty on the shelf time's hands spiral out of her control,
while hers bear a binding chain,
she claws for something new.
Her eyes roll around in her head,
looking for a light,
while her thoughts irritate and itch claustrophobically.
A rash in her mind forms,
as she thinks of her blood,
the girl she pushed and screamed out.
Her life lies ahead,
time is her friend.
Below the woman toils away,
and all she can think about,
is a life wasted.