Friday, November 22, 2024

She’s going

“…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.

RELATED ARTICLES

Most Popular

Recent Comments