She is on her way to die.
She will cease to care.
Stop eating.
Forget the time,
And slow down her heart.
Breath will be difficult
And coming hard, she will breathe more.
Malnutrition happens.
Her soul slowly leaking out.

Another dies.
A mere one,
A tiny one,
A lady
With her hats and three good stories to tell.

The honeysuckle is faint here.
All souls are alone now.
The breeze, so calm, tells
Tales to the grass
And waits for the sun to fade as it leaves.

I settle back to sleep.
Dream another world into being.
No empty benches there,
No birds without a song.

 

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia