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The gnarled skeletal hands
Reach for the empty gray heavens.
This is her home, among the
Silence, solace, and degeneration.
The years of weather have taken her
Face,
Where timeless beauty once lived,
Presides now a grainy unbalanced
Mask.
Her time-worn gown of blotched
Stone
Loosely fits around her forlorn form,
Her lipless mouth seems to express dismay
At the time spent in stoic
Abandon.
Even her pedestal of quiet repose,
The testament of a husband’s
Love,
Has been taken by black decaying
Consumption.
Is that sadness in the hollow of her eye?
There must be a mistake, and it holds
Nothing more than unfeeling, unseeing
Cold.
The flat masonry hands
Sit upon a cold empty lap.
This is her terminus, among the
Forsaken, forgotten, and regressed. |
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