An ancient withered crone
Sat upon her haggard throne:
A rocking chair of wood,
Creaking where it stood.
Her withered hands were old,
Not the graceful age that's told.
Her fingers clasped a scrapbook,
Wherein her life's memories were stuck.
She had nobody left,
And though her hands were deft-
She shook as she flipped through pages,
Parchment pieces of ages.
And as the local kids made dares,
To edge up her porch's stairs,
A tear fell from the woman's eye,
It was not unlike her to cry.
The woman lived her lonesome days,
Mourning escaped youth in her only ways.
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