Thursday, February 10, 2011

The living dead

She sits there staring at nothingness, oblivious of my presence


What moved her to that recess, to gape blankly thence?

Was it a youth of extreme abuse, or an unfaithful beau?

Was it a life of pain and disuse, or a moment of overwhelming woe?

She responds not to my words benign, or my efforts to rouse her

Of life, her breath is the only sign, her spirit has gone for ever

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