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SHE WAS A GIRLShe was a girl when cake mascara was all the rage Gardenia complexion, glistening lips with young age As befits her now feeble, aching frame Beauty was something she assumed was her claim The toll of the years runs swift in her mind Her brow was unwrinkled, for time had been kind Beaus were plentiful, proposals too many to number But now her days are spent deep in coma like slumber Drool down her chin and bed-sores a plight Asleep all day then wide awake at night What is age, a number hidden beneath Beauty is a white lily bound in the flesh of a wreath Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades Vote for this poem |
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