Frosted hair, cobweb skin,
egg-shell eyes, no light within.
Paper lips and whiskered chin,
stubborn heart that won’t give in.
Foetal hands stiffly furled
like her tresses, tightly curled.
Blue-white nails that time has pearled,
shrunken figure, shrunken world.
Sight and sound come creeping soft,
fragrances too rarely waft.
Senses all are held aloft
and memory is absent oft.
Careful footsteps, darting tongue,
weary robes on bent back hung.
Shallow breath from dogged lung
and yesterdays to walk among.
Seven clocks to chime her fears
making light of ninety years.
Their ticking falls on deafened ears
though time left dwindles like her tears.
Cup and saucer, each half-full;
luke-warm brew – acceptable.
A mountain grown from winding wool
her final testimonial.
She prays for sleep to steal her in,
to smooth the wrinkles from her skin.
She yearns for new life to begin
but fears her plea is one more sin,
Which keeps her here to yet endure,
denying her the easy cure.
The sweetness of an overture
to something greater she is sure.
A narrow view through dusty pane
revives her once, and once again.
This shrunken world, her last domain,
is all that’s left of mortal stain.
