reaping on a park bench

 

 

 

 

 

clasped octogenarian hands,

folded wrinkle upon wrinkle,

all but fused together,

for their lines match all but perfectly.

 

the woman leans against the man's warm shoulder,

eyes closed, as salt stains her forehead

from the tears that pour from his eyes

 

she goes cold in his arms slowly,

painfully, mockingly slow.

 

past death do they part.

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[pjbaker]

satisfying to read

[Sherbs Dreaming Tree Of..]

Very good :)