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Rated: E · Poetry · Death · #1678391
A woman in her late years
WINTER YEARS



The stench of age filled with
nameless faces in their winter years,
empty eyes and silent voices
memories trapped with no one to tell.
She holds a tattred doll and weeps,
perhaps of a child lost long ago.
Legs bent and gnarled
no longer carry her.
All is lost to the youth of their yesterdays.
Alone death comes on angels wings
to carry her home.
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