7 June 2012
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.
Old Woman. • Opuss № I