Her hair was of
silver spider webs spun,
Lined face, old
lemon rind dried in the sun,
Breasts, sapless
petals, of long dead rose,
Her back bent, as
ancient carob in repose,
Fingers, twigs,
now gnarled & hard folded,
Her lips, rutted,
creased & meanly moulded,
Butterfly wings pressed & lost on sad
breeze,
Her old limbs
swaying, loose as autumn trees,
Eyes, obsidian
olive seeds, spat upon the sand,
Her laughter, yet
un-dried, echoes through the land,
Body of shriveled
pod, upon her journey, now dried,
Her sepia flesh
desiccated, yet her soul has never died.
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