“…to hell in a handCasket!”
(What I always thought she said)
As though I would be shrunk by sin
And carried by those who knew better.
Creaking forward out of a sunken chair
Her skin as dusty as a mile in the desert,
“…a handCasket!”
Left at the iron gates
Which never close
Though never will they
Bear the stain
Of rusted hinges
From the rain.
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