Memory
Some days, she sat gazing out the window,
Stone-still, statue-like.
She didn’t answer when we called.
Some days, she lay frail on her bed
And tears pooled onto her pillow.
She was oblivious to the outside world.
Some days, she leaned on icy walls,
A bitter, lost, half-smile on her lips.
She would stand unmoving for hours.
One day, she grew old and weak,
Propped up with lots of pillow on the bright white bed.
She looked sunken and fragile and very, very little.
Where have you been?” we asked her.
She turned to us her unseeing, hollow eyes and uttered the only words
we had heard her say.
‘Lost,” the broken lips whispered,
‘Lost in the maze of memory.’
Copyright © Rosy Love | Year Posted 2013
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