The End
By tiny poet
an old dyeing woman,her frail body fighting for breath.years of worry and wisdom,are evident by the locks of her white hair.brittle bones grow weaker.the cold chill of death is in the air.what has she given to this world?subtle smiles or bitter tears?for all the losses she has bared.no soul will ever truly know,what secrets are dyeing with her heart.she is giving up,ending the strugle now.finaly, she lets life go.no pulse remains.worried about having to many cliches in my poems. Written August 5th, 2001 © on Aug 04 2001 07:05 PM PST 0 • 1
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"an old dyeing woman,her frail body fighting for breath.years of worry and wisdom,are evident by the locks of her white hair.brittle bones grow weaker.the cold chill of death is in the air.what has she given to this world?subtle smiles or bitter tears?for all the losses she has bared.no soul will ever truly know,what secrets are dyeing with her heart.she is giving up,ending the strugle now.finaly, she lets life go.no pulse remains.worried about having to many cliches in my poems...."