She lived on the
soft edge of reason, just this side of life,
When Angel of
death knocked on her door & invited her in,
She said,” I´m
ready to go to the ball, but first I must be clad,
I must be garbed
& attired to suit this auspicious occasion”,
The Angel just
nodded & smiled & said, “Just take your time,
I´ll wait here
until you look utterly beautiful & superbly divine”,
So the old woman
prayed to the God she´d always called friend,
“I ask you to help
me one last time, help me to dress for the ball,
Paint my cold
lips, with the golden beams of the ancient warm sun,
Daub my lined
cheeks, with the rouge of dawn´s ruddy pink roses,
Shod my cool
curled feet, within the forest´s ivy slippers of green,
Mantle me barely, in
whispers of the moth´s gentle moon-breath,
Crown my befuddled
old head, with twinkling tiara of bright stars,
Please then wrap me,
in the happy shawl of old memories now past,
Let the only tears
on my cheek, be those of raindrops & cold dews,
And now I am ready,
to waltz through death´s awaiting long halls,
Naked, garbed only
in my skin & mantled in the echoes of my life.
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