Left Behind
“How exactly, my love, am I to die well?”
The question croaked - a ghostly whisper;
from her lingering mouth
of rotten teeth and wretched lips;
broken by an end of thrist.
Eyes glazed at the edge of reality.
A mighty visage; a matriarch.
Vitality faded as a memory.
No more beautiful fiction,
only firm, cold skin;
left behind.
Copyright © Nathan Wilson | Year Posted 2024
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