It comes to us all

Wispy white hair
finger joints swollen sore
plastic teeth rattle, in a slackened old jaw
where she sits with a vacant, lacklustre stare.
In a cracked leather chair
behind misted blue eyes
a shrunken old lady remembers…
now just the embers, of her flaxen long hair.
Once a fine young girl
When handsome boys smiled
she made her gingham dress swirl
to drive them, coquettishly wild.
From fourteen she grew
to a woman of zest
Knowing, just what to do
with hips and lips and firm young breasts.
Over months turned to years
where decades slipped past
children, grew and then flew…
she knew they’d not last.
Just unable to cope
widowed – lost and so lonely
a home was suggested
a room, just hers only.
Nice people there
Ever so kind
she sits on her own, in her cracked leather chair
smiles – as she remembers her long flaxen hair.

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