The puny coil

Eyes haggard, lashes falling out
Sitting by the window
Still svelte bones, all inutile
Fingers painted in red
Delicate but drained of all wine

Mom would scamper when she’d walk
Now she awaits the moment
Words still spill out like ancient songs
But like mom knew footprints didn’t last
Memory always lasts, breath does not

From sleeping beds to walking chairs
There must be a reason of her iced life
Maybe just to uphold poignant life
Darkening her own moon
She sits by the window awaiting her son

22

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