Wednesday, 27 May 2015


It was not the dress that she was used to,

They weren’t the clothes she used to wear,

It wasn´t her usual image, that she once knew,

What on earth was that, now replacing her hair?


What happened to that suit of her satiny skin?

Nipped & tucked tightly, in peachy soft pink?

When had those stitches worn & frayed so thin?

And her hair turned to grey, from its ebony ink?


Her garment now, was merely an old loose cloak,

Hanging about her bones, now all tattered & worn,                       

Her gloves & shoes, now were gnarled as old oak,

Her garb, moth eaten silk, of living years, now torn.



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