lillian the home poet

Mood swings
like a funicular,
she caught you in the ride.
Racing high on her glory-buzz
till you she blamed and screeched to stop.
Spittle flew as vicious words she flung.
Careening down tracks so worn
you knew the path to come.
And when in final years
rolling rosary beads
unable to ascend,
she waited still
oh so silently
to exit her
living
hell.