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 Continue reading

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