Her husband
Was the kind of man
Convinced
He had to make
Money

No matter what cost
Of spirit
For his soul
Was a lineage
Marked

As he toiled
Looking ahead
Consumed
With fleeting
Successes

Depressed
Anna was married
To him
As a bride
Impure

Through rivals
Within his trade
Both heirs
Of certain
Distinction

Filling cups
From crystal
Holding cash
Which often
Flowed

Building worlds
Uncorked
At tables
Vast
Yet many

Conquering
Parties frequent
Whenever
Those drinks
Were asked

And questions
Poured
Like fate
Where miseries
Mounted quickly

Each time
These customers
Wondered
If driving
Would be okay

While Anna
She worried sick
Hating
The fact
She’d chosen

Her spouse
So focused
And ready
To reap such seeds
Of waste

By lives
Shortened
And victim
At the hands
Of dangerous excess

Like her babies
Gone
From fretting
His need
To merely advance

Always
Demanding change
From her face
And home
They settled

An estate
Ripe with envy
For the vineyards
Bigger
Than theirs

Producing
What he claimed
Was the fount
Of purest
Wishes

Dismayed
How Anna begged him
For a bliss
Their union
Shared

Though pregnant
As she was
That night
The record
Shattered

Waking him
From sleeping
To a vinyl
Cracked
And split

As the needle
Slowly swayed
Over air
Without
Its purpose

To present
Such aging music
On the side
His wife
Preferred

Noticing
She was gone
With blood
Beyond
Their quarters

Smeared
Far down
The corridor
To their kitchen
Glowing dim

Following
Screeching sound
From a TV
Left
With static

Frightening
After midnight
As the emergency
Broadcast
Test

Blared
Among those halls
Of a mansion
Hushed
And silent

Seeking
Anna’s presence
He felt
Behind him
Weak

Like whispers
In his ear
Which spoke
Of phantoms
Witnessed

Discovering
She was dangling
Just above him
Come
New dawn.

– J. Pigno