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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The black-as-widow’s-weeds night of endless stars was so cold... cruel as temperature plunged its frigid fingers feeling through my being fondling my heart and soul without mercy molesting me - taunting my will to live and just when I thought the ice water in my shivering veins would kill me there she was she came shyly at first demurely spreading her pinkening skirts over the horizon while her blushing complexion deftly gelded the darkness I prayed-I pleaded-I made deals (with who? you don’t want to know..) that her warming smile would be my saving grace… It began to slowly dawn on me as she flexed her sinewy heat waves flaunting her solar power that I was caught between false hope and no deliverance for the desert sunrise-to-sunset now faced-off and challenged me with barren bone-dry intensity sucking dry the new dew and any life containing moisture weathered granular remains of ancient feldspar and quartz with eons of sifting and shifting boredom took on a hell-raising life of their own as the fire-breathing celestial sorceress casted spells of smoke and mirror mirages and magically made ridges of rippling blond sands glisten like scales of a million skimming sidewinders writhing in joy at my agony— it’s amazing how cold I feel when I have been so burned again I face a desolate night — deserted — without a blanket Susan Ashley April 29, 2018 Widow’s Weeds: For women of 19th century England, a custom of mourning that involved wearing heavy, concealing, black clothing and the use of heavy veils of black crepe. The entire ensemble was colloquially known as ‘widow’s weeds’. Mourning - Wikipedia
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