Not Much More
A poem about age.
Faded, a smile
Once so crafted, torn, wrinkled
Her gaze confronted the pond beyond her.
“They don’t get to talk to many,
Not much more” a voice beside me hushed;
Solemnly, I nod.
And to think, of pale her,
Time, so much lost -
A carousel of memories now dies:
When she grew of age, each candle marked
Only by its slowly fizzling out
A life of love, and loss, and nothing to last
Will they remember her? No,
She doesn’t talk to many,
Not much more.
And so, a statue sat on the bench
Like stone, now reflects
A life measured by headstone, as time dejects;
A lie in the ground beneath us.
The gaze rests,
and all time has disproved.
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