Stooped she stands, a stick in hand
A gnarled tree, twisted and battered.
Her wrinkled face and shriveled arms
Like cracked barks of trees in farms
Mask tales of voluptuous flowery youth
And brisk fruitful womanhood
Of fleeting springs, ripe summers
Pleasant falls and bitter winters.
She sits with sunken eyes
Staring at vacant life, cold as ice
Her slipping thoughts are ropes to cling
To memorable things no more to sing.
The bulging veins on her neck and hands
Once gushed with vigour lush
And crafted life in the womb
Now congealed and cold.
Slow and unsteady steps she takes
On tottering legs that miled a million miles
Bones stretching feeble skin.
A clock whose wheels have clogged
Sinking into dust from whence she sprung
To rise again morphed and renewed.
Stooped, wrinkled, shriveled, unwanted
She stands, a lonely wilted beauty.
