On Her Deathbed, by me

On her deathbed, young and filled with ache,  

Eighteen years old, with nothing left to stake.  

Her world is a quiet, desolate room,  

Where even hope seems buried in gloom.

The walls are barren, the air is still,  

Her breaths come short, and time stands still.  

She peers through shadows at a life not lived,  

An empty heart, with nothing left to give.

No comfort in the cold and lonely space,  

No solace in a fleeting, distant face.  

She lies alone, beneath a pallid light,  

A fragile soul lost in the encroaching night.

Yet in her final moments, a quiet plea—  

For understanding, or perhaps just to be  

A memory, a name upon a breath,  

Before she fades into the silence of death.