by Linda M. Crate
solemn child without a smile,
I know her well; I was her at
her age, laughter left me years
ago; the topography of a smile
is still hard for me to find; I
wax nostalgia for the conversation —
not because the moments fill me
with joy; those times already
seem to have been spent by someone else —
yet I’m the one that feels the weary
seep into my bones, the marrow
sucked out; I wonder which old woman
used up my reserves of mirth for her
own sick pleasure and left me here in
her straights of lonely moon silver eyes
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