the dance of the ink riddled fingers

swallowing days

Posted in epiphany tiffany, the poet-tree by enisea on 10/11/2012

There was an old lady who swallowed each day
I don’t know why she swallowed each day
She certainly didn’t just want it that way
She swallowed each day as she knew no better

There was an old lady who knew no better
She thought if she asked, nobody would let her
She excused herself for knowing no better
And then complained she was wronged in a letter

There was an old lady who complained she was wronged
Never fought for the rights she sort of knew all along
She felt hopeless because she didn’t belong
She was in the wrong state to know what she wanted

There was an old lady who didn’t know what she wanted
She shunned responsibility, and by decisions were daunted
She hardly pursued, but more often felt hunted
And the few things she wanted she hardly endured for

There was an old lady who would hardly endure
There was rarely a distraction she wouldn’t detour for
Her life was the furthest thing from secure
And even those who loved her would call her immature

There was an old lady who was in her last days
She couldn’t believe her younger days were a haze
And she prayed that none others would know this place
That her children would do more than just swallow their days.

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