Like This...

Like This...

Hair as frail and white as the last breath of a dandelion   bent as she moves ever so slowly   with great pain   finds occasional coins ... Unable to recall dormant dreams and   adventures of her youth   nor available for chatting...   She reclines,   this one,   like so, without  memories of images of the night   awakes again to diminished mornings silent as a lost reflection bitter as gall... What will she do,   this one, ancient, brittle and silver as the moon?   Who will be at her side, ghostlike and numb, while she luxuriates in cups of tea, forgotten songs on a radio, a comforter about her withered knees...