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An evocative poem about the attic and old age from Deeya

 Robbed she stands, bearing scars
all over her putrid skin; dust-settled
fungi-smeared; stale from the air
over yester-years

 ***

 Each morning the segregated sun
parades into the still air, raucous 
with the gnawing of termites for 
the fond warmth.  A hushed figure 
steals into the captive air, nostrils
inundated with the smell of
dusty boxes, worn-out trunks, rusty hinges
and forfeited wares.

 ***

 Each night, in New Moon nights
she conceives knowing well it would 
die the next day and not a trace be found. 

 ***

 Still, on Nights like these she's immortal
only to wither by day, immaculate 
only to be dishevelled and ageless
only to crumble by
the deteriorating sun. 

Image by Different Truths


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