Sunday, May 19, 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.

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