Ghostly Image

the ridges

I look at her weathered face

and I can see that time doesn’t fly.

It picks, it chips,

it spits out turpentine,

and it drizzles acid rain.

I look at her and I can see

that her cheeks are rusty

and the crows have made

a nest of her bonnet.

I look at her and I want to cry.

I look at her and I can’t help

but wonder what its like to die

not of old age, though the years,

there have been many,

but from people moving on,

from time shifting perspective.

I look at her and I learn how to survive.

I look at her and I feel…

fine.

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