The Bag Lady
Old with wisdom they say
A long life she lived
Wrinkles tell her story well
The crow’s feet gauge her eyes
Dull, colored grey now
Without a spark in sight.
Time is for the birds
The clock has not been kind to her.
A life of wealth or poverty stricken
Neither what the story books foretell
Banished to life alone.
Her husband, gone
He was dead and gone years ago
Overcome with death, they say
Even alive, he was still dead
His destiny had been written on his face.
I guess she expected it
And so she carried on the same
Day in and day out
Setting the timer for the corn bread
Like watching life run out of breath
Time is for the birds.
She will accompany his soon
That timer is almost ready to sound
I guess she’s expecting it
Destiny has begun to write its self on her face
Just like his.
She watched him die well before he ran out of life
And now she will carry on the same
You’d think she’d do something differently
Like take a bite of forbidden fruit
But rather than trying to live
She will simply follow suit
And live to die.
Time is for the birds.
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Synopsis
A poem written about the loss of dreams.
A Word from the Writer
This describes those around me who have given up on dreaming. Instead, they trudge through life with meaningless chores, living for death.
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