Into Dust
When the rivers of my mind
Run dry
And my aching hands
Can no longer hold a pen
Will I still be able to feel
to love
to understand
The reason for growing old
And slowly sinking away
From my senses
Into a cold, deep and empty
Grave
In some vacant plot
Where the soil is dry and
Hard
And crumbles
Like my old bones
Into dust.
Copyright © Judith Palmer | Year Posted 2014
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