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Click hereIt’s not a rocking chair she sits in now,
staring through a sparkling clear window
into the past, remembering
sleepovers and Sunday
prayers, watching the wind whisper
secrets of sunny delight-filled days
of marriage and children.
Shadows grow long as he lays bound
to iron machinery,
turned like a rotisserie chicken
to avoid bed sores,
but he doesn’t last long.
Death’s right steals him away
then she lives for her children,
spoilt, passionate, unable to forget
nor forgive. A gnawing ache eats her mind away,
maggots on a rotting corpse. As winter draws near
her once solid frame whittles to a skeletal hue
and reliance on wheels becomes necessary.
Muscles weaken, the mind forgets. Tea,
a ritual of old, is taken, the cup not held
by her own hand.
She stares, but sees only a reflection
of her younger, vibrant self and wonders
who the stranger could be.
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 38,500 poems.
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..and unforgiving read. If ever there was a poem advocating euthanasia!
'As winter draws near
her once solid frame whittles to a skeletal hue'
Is hue the right word here?
I'm nit picking. Good poem.
b'brig
in this can remove the glasses painted in rainbow swirls of denial ..lovely job on the subject of aging...its like taking medicine...o)) bluerain